


The Year to be Hated

by Vaultdweller



Series: Under the earth [2]
Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Spy Stuff, and SMUT, what else is there
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:35:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24728341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaultdweller/pseuds/Vaultdweller
Summary: Sequel to Down, down under the earth goes another loverEve is coming across nothing but dead ends in her mission to disrupt the Twelve and MI6 until a mysterious stranger offers help, but at a price. Villanelle is adjusting to her new life but still longs for true freedom. Together, they test the bonds of their partnership as, one-by-one, they snip the threads binding their former employers to each other and try carve a happy ending for themselves in a world where everyone always has a secret and what they both want might not align.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Series: Under the earth [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1787998
Comments: 122
Kudos: 320





	1. When I didn’t die I wondered, why not?

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome back!

**Four Months Later**

A warm breeze sneaks through glass doors resting slightly ajar, rustling an unsightly pile of papers and sending some floating gently to the floor. Outside on the balcony, a fat, white cat sits upon the railing, soaking up the last rays of a dying Roman sun. 

Just inside, Eve sits, legs folded, in a vintage wood-and-velvet contraption billing itself as a chair, staring unmoving at her laptop screen. Stares at the same words long enough they start to not look like words anymore, her brain regressing to some pre-language ennui. Another whispering breeze dislodges a curl from behind her ear. Caught in her glasses, it rests like a curtain over one eye. She doesn’t reach to move it, hoping this new, obscured, perspective might offer just the lens she needs to jar the jumbled letters back into place. 

It doesn’t. All it does is make her nose itch. 

Eve blinks. Her laptop screen flickers, then goes dark. Power saver mode. 

_ God I wish that were me _ , Eve thinks. Wishing she could let her own circus of a brain slip into its own kind of power saver mode as it turns and turns and turns over the same bits of information over and over. A hamster on a wheel running as fast as its little legs can go before collapsing, dead but still spinning, on its own power, held there by its own centrifugal force. Eve feels it, pressing her against the wall in their little carnival ride. How long do they have left to spin? And what happens when it stops? 

For a moment, one flash in the dark, Eve forgets. Forgets everything that happened, back in London, because Kenny would know how to make this all make sense. How to twist and turn each square so the colors line up. She almost,  _ almost  _ reaches for her phone, ready to call up Words with Friends and shoot off a coded S.O.S. 

Almost. 

Until she remembers. 

It hits her at once like a freight train flying through a tunnel and Eve’s stomach twists, like she’s falling again. That rushing, weightless feeling, so helplessly hyper aware of every second. She’s been feeling like this a lot lately. Like she’s still falling. Like she never stopped. 

It had been good.  _ God  _ it had been good, tearing through Italy with Villanelle like Thelma and Louise. Digging up money she’d stashed around after kills, holing up in boutique hotels, leaving their room only to collect their takeout bags and tip the driver. Eve felt like she’d become pure sensation. A wholly reactive being filled with, consumed with Villanelle. And Villanelle with her. 

When they reached Rome, Villanelle set them up in a flat - sunny, top floor, overlooking the city, just as she said in the bathroom at the bar. Eve secretly thinks this was their destination all along, because Rome suits Villanelle in a way London never did. The effortless, ageless power. Eve imagines Villanelle wouldn’t be out of place at the Colosseum, watching lions devour Christians. She’s looser here. Commanding. A haughty kind of confidence that comes with distance from Konstantin, from a slack leash trailing behind her. Like a current has been shot through her bones and muscles. She wears it like a shiny new skin. 

But, Eve suspects Villanelle also stopped for her. Because she knew Eve was just running. And the thing about running is, the things you’re running from never really go away. You just get more tired. Like a pack of predators chasing a wounded moose, snapping at its heels. Eve could hear them getting closer in the night, the laughing barks of coyotes in the dark. 

Now if only she could make something of it, of the gesture, of the trove of data at her fingertips. Eve realized quickly she should perhaps have been a bit more … discerning in what she pulled off the MI6 databases rather than pulling files like she was running through Supermarket Sweep filling her cart with every kind of snack on the shelves. It’s good info, of course. It’s just, disjointed. A thousand tiny shards of shattered crystal, beautiful individually but useless on their own. Missing context, snipped conversations. Names, companies, transactions, correspondence — Eve sees an infinite number of threads branching out, but none braid together into a tapestry. The whole thing just, frayed ends. And frayed nerves as frustration builds up, a bubbling volcano ready to burst. If only she could step back, step out of the weeds and trees and see the forest … 

A familiar, high-pitched whine scrambles Eve’s line of thought. 

Biting down a smile, Eve closes her eyes and takes a breath. Counts to one, two, three, then turns. 

Villanelle is draped on the couch across the room, a red silk robe dripping off her, a glass of champagne in her hand. Of course, Eve thinks. The mirror behind her catches the orange rays of the sunset, reflecting it back like a halo and her hair, left to air dry after a shower, hangs loose across her shoulders in little waves. Every bit a lion lounging after an indulgent meal. Or a devil upon her throne. Eve can almost see her radiant, curved horns in the sea of Villanelle’s hair, can almost feel the beginnings of her own itching to break through. 

The last notes of one of Chopin’s nocturnes float between them and Eve feels each press of the piano key like the stroke of a fingertip against her cheek. Along her jaw. 

Villanelle raises an eyebrow. Eve swallows. Stands. 

There it is again. That feeling of falling. The tug in her stomach. Only now, instead plummeting into the infinite nothing, she’s plummeting toward Villanelle. Falling into orbit. 

Eve stumbles a bit, her legs asleep from sitting in the chair, but she recovers smoothly as she crosses the room toward Villanelle, who clocks Eve’s approach with a heated, heavy stare. Eve feels it in her chest, in her heart. In the chambers pumping and pushing blood. Where Villanelle has wormed her way in, in the very spaces keeping Eve breathing. Ironic. That the very person sent to kill her would make her feel so alive. Villanelle likes to say people are at their most alive just before death. So maybe not ironic then. Maybe who cares. Maybe who cares about words and rules when Villanelle is sipping champagne, the tiniest drop of it rolling off the corner of her mouth. Eve watches it trace down her chin, then drip onto her neck as she rounds the couch, coming up behind Villanelle. Reaching out with a finger, she catches the wayward drop on Villanelle’s collarbone, drags her nail along Villanelle’s throat before replacing the finger with her lips, tongue searching for the sour-sweet path of champagne. Eve feels Villanelle press up and into her, feels her skin flush. Teeth replace tongue and Villanelle whines again, low this time, as much a warning as a need. 

“I thought you were going to get dinner,” she murmurs against Villanelle’s throat. 

“I did,” Villanelle replies with a smirk, letting her legs fall open, robe parting with them. An invitation. Eve slips the champagne glass from Villanelle’s hand. 

“Champagne is dinner now?” 

“No,” Villanelle pouts, turning to face Eve. Her eyes are hooded and dark. Something rises in Eve to match them. “But you were so still for so long I thought you had become a statue. I was about to drop you off at the museum but first, I thought, maybe I would try reminding you of what is important.” 

Eve pauses, swirling the champagne in its condensation-slicked glass, her mood suddenly serious. How long had it been since Villanelle’s last kill? What was her longest stretch between jobs, before this? Violence and death weren’t just Villanelle’s trade, but fundamental parts of her. Parts she’d set aside while they’ve been on the run. All while Eve had been allowed to go back to her old trade of dealing in secrets. Guilt washes over her in a great, chilling wave. Villanelle was right. Time for a reminder of what’s important. 

Rounding the couch again, Eve stands before Villanelle, every atom, every nerve tuned to her, buzzing with the frequency Villanelle commands. The air is thick with it, so thick Eve struggles to take a breath, feels like she needs gills to take Villanelle in. It rolls off her in waves, coats the back of Eve’s throat. She recognizes it, some old, instinctual part of her passed down from ancestor to ancestor whispering the meaning. 

Power. 

Villanelle wields it the way a chef wields a knife, the way a knight wields a sword — as an extension of herself and her influence in the world. She uses it to speak to the parts of Eve buried down deep, the parts still afraid of thunderstorms and a tiger’s roar. They’re listening now. Eve’s knees bend as she sinks into a kneel to the floor in front of Villanelle, whose legs spread wider to accommodate, to swallow, like the gaping mouth of a shark. All that’s missing is the teeth. Villanelle slides her hips closer to the edge of the couch and it takes all of Eve’s willpower, every inch - and it’s very short - not to look. She instead keeps her eyes locked with Villanelle’s, watching as her pupils blow wide and dark, swallowing the other colors like black ink. 

“Drink it,” Villanelle says, her mouth curling around the words as she knocks Eve’s hand, the one holding the champagne glass, gently with her knee. The glass finds its way to Eve’s lips, somehow. She feels as if she’s outside herself, a weightless wisp at Villanelle’s whim. The champagne is sour and flat but Villanelle said drink so she drinks, empties the flute into her mouth, lets it run down her throat. Considers tossing the glass behind her for dramatics but with her luck she’ll step on it later and end up with stitches. She settles for setting it on the low coffee table next to her. There’s two hands and long fingers in her hair, then, tipping her head back, creating space for the lips and teeth at her throat. Tracing the arteries, following blood as it cycles from her brain to her heart and back. One day those teeth will break skin, Eve thinks, pressing herself into them, into pricking canines. One day Villanelle will lose control. Or, perhaps, find it again.

The silk bathrobe is cool against her fingertips but Eve pushes the fabric aside, finding the blazing hot skin of Villanelle’s thighs, smooth and soft over hard muscle that flexes under the drag of her nails. Against her throat, Villanelle lets out a sigh and relaxes into her for a moment. Eve feels the tip of Villanelle’s nose trace the length of her neck, tickling little circles behind her ear. They hang there, suspended, teetering in the eye of the storm and for once, for once Eve wants to fall. To plunge headlong into wherever Villanelle wants to take this, as long as it’s far, far away from whatever is happening in her own head. 

“Please,” Eve sighs, her fingers curling at Villanelle’s knees. Slowly, deliberately Villanelle pulls back, stretches up to her full height until she is looming over Eve, eyes wide and alert. A perfect flower, blooming in the night, reflecting every bit of dark and light inside Eve. She feels time stretch long and thin between them, like taffy, each strand glowing silver in the shadows. 

“Tell me,” Villanelle says, her voice a bass note humming deep in Eve’s gut. “Tell it to me.” 

“I’m yours,” Eve whispers. Then, again, stronger. “I’m yours.” 

If Eve could have seen her reflection she knows,  _ she knows  _ she would see her own twin horns in miniature, rising to match Villanelle’s. 

With no pretense, Villanelle pushes, presses Eve down to the very core of her, the crux between her legs perched just at the edge of the couch. Her hips rise eagerly to meet Eve’s tongue as she leans back against the soft velvet, exhaling something otherworldly at the first touch, at how Eve’s tongue slides easily against slick folds. Eve loses herself just as easily, her senses filled with Villanelle, the taste of her, the feel of her. The way her fingers cinch tighter as Eve’s tongue circles her clit. The way she thrusts greedily when Eve’s tongue dips lower, presses deeper. Eve forgets to breathe here, always, with how easily, how thoroughly, she reorients herself to Villanelle. How singularly focused she is. Consuming, and being consumed. Two flames burning brightly, fueled only by each other. 

Above her, Villanelle’s sighs hit a new pitch, a cresting wave. Her back arches and Eve has to hold her hips down but they’re slippery in the silk of the bathrobe. Villanelle hums with unspent, roiling energy, stoked by Eve between her legs, tongue firm and generous, lavish in smooth, wet heat. Angling her chin, Eve pushes deeper, lets her tongue curl and pulls Villanelle’s hips flush against her. There’s a hitch, a choked little sob, then Eve’s name, over and over and over … 

A window shatters, somewhere deeper in the apartment. 

“Are you  _ fucking _ kidding me?” Eve asks, half muffled by Villanelle’s thighs.

She tries to roll back onto her heels and stand to confront whatever the fuck just smashed its way into their apartment but Villanelle’s grip is like a vice, holding her there. 

“Do not,” Villanelle hisses, her words sharp like a knife. “Do not stop.” 

“Are  _ you _ fucking kidding me?” 

“Do not stop,” Villanelle answers, harder this time. The fingers in Eve’s hair are strong, but not insistent. Not pushing. Villanelle is desperate, but not forceful. The chain is loose around Eve’s neck - she could shuck it off. 

Or sink back in. 

She watches Villanelle for a moment, tries to read something in the deep flush of her cheeks, in her stuttered, staccato breathing. This is madness, Eve thinks. Someone is coming to kill them, probably. Someone is coming through their bedroom, down the hall, through the kitchen and the dining room. Her ears strain trying to catch the sound of footsteps but all she hears is the steady beating of Villanelle’s heart. It hypnotizes her, the rhythm of it. The power of it. This is madness, this is madness, this is madness … 

Eve leans forward, leans in. Redoubles her efforts. Groans as the taste of Villanelle hits her tongue again. Hums out the vibrations against Villanelle’s clit. A head thrown back, her name again, again, as she uses her lips to suck and works her tongue. 

There’s a commotion, suddenly. From her position, she can just make out a dark figure reflected in the mirror before Villanelle reaches inside the cushions of the couch. She sees the flash of a blade as Villanelle, with the flick of her wrist, sends a throwing knife toward the assailant. Villanelle’s muscles contract, her back arching as she reaches her peak while Eve watches as the figure in the mirror grabs their throat, then collapses onto the floor, unmoving.

“Wow,” Villanelle exhales. Her head is still resting against the back of the couch and she’s staring, her eyes glazed and unfocused, at the ceiling. “Having you eat me out while I kill a man? That was -” 

“Incredibly stupid?” Eve finishes for her, standing. “Needlessly reckless?” 

“I was going to say,  _ very  _ sexy,” Villanelle smirks. 

“Don’t get any ideas.” 

Villanelle responds with a face that spells out she has nothing  _ but  _ ideas. She stands to match Eve, robe falling carelessly open and goddamnit if Eve’s pulse doesn’t jump, doesn’t just fucking hiccup. Goddamn traitor. Rolling her eyes, Eve turns and stalks toward the other side of the room, where just a few minutes ago she was beating her head against a dead end. Where there’s now a dead person. In her living room. Aren’t they done with this yet? Eve wonders. Haven’t they outgrown it? 

A cursory glance reveals the anonymous intruder is a male, slim build, dressed in black head-to-toe with a ski mask over his face. A knife hilt protrudes from his windpipe, a thin trickle of blood running from the wound onto the vintage wood floor. Eve sighs. They’re never getting their security deposit back. She reaches for the frayed edge of the ski mask, pulling it up over his face to reveal a perfectly generic looking man. Italian, if she had to guess, with a thin, but hard bulletproof vest tucked under his sweater. Not your run-of-the-mill cat burglar then. 

“Our friend was a professional,” Eve remarks over her shoulder as Villanelle slides behind her. 

“Not a very good one,” Villanelle tuts. “Their quality has really taken a hit since I left.” 

“Okay, but he’s still dead in our living room.” 

“Relax, baby,” Villanelle coos, laying a hand on Eve's cheek. Eve wants to bite it. “I will take care of him. How about you go to bed and wait for me?” 

“Go to bed?” Eve explodes, standing up suddenly and nearly knocking Villanelle off balance. “Someone just broke in trying to kill us and you want me to just go to bed? I’m not a child, Villanelle. I’m an equal partner in whatever the fuck is happening and, and …” 

And, god, the walls are closing in. The apartment compressing fully and singularly against Eve’s back, against her ribs. She can’t breathe. She feels twisted. Suffocated. Part of her yearns for the familiar, weightless freefall. The devil she knows. 

“And I need to go,” Eve finishes in a rush. “I’m going out. I’ll be back. Don’t wait up.” 

“Eve,” Villanelle calls after her, scrambling up from the floor. “Eve, that is not a very good i—”

The slam of the apartment door cuts Villanelle off as Eve takes the stairs two at a time down to the street. 

**********

Eve is sucking down her third gelato and contemplating ditching the spy game for competitive stress-eating when she knocks shoulders with an oblivious tourist. Her dessert, cone and all, topples helplessly to the pavement and Eve watches in stunned, mournful silence, unable to even muster a half-hearted middle finger in retort. Still warm from the heat of the day, the gelato slowly liquefies on the sidewalk, running in winding rivulets through the cracks while the cone stands in stoic salute. A flag, a physical marker of Eve’s presence. She wants to kick it, to send it sailing into some perfect looking influencer, or whatever-the-fuck they’re called, posing in front of the ruins. Wants to stomp the gelato into the dirt, erase any trace she’d ever been here at all. She almost raises her foot to kick off whatever chain of events comes next, but thinks better of it. Having the Polizia show up would kind of be the opposite of what she’s going for here. 

Eve longs, suddenly, for her knee-length, fur-trimmed puffer that she left back in London. A year-round wardrobe staple. She’s in Rome and it’s stifling but she wants to wrap herself in it, to disappear into it. To hide. To blend. Because that’s what she’s good at, isn’t it? Hiding. Existing in plain sight. She hid from MI6, a mouse in their machine. She hid from herself for decades. She’s fucking  _ great  _ at hiding. World class champion. Put a few dozen layers between herself and the world and she’s comfortable. But Villanelle would tell her she’s not a mouse. Not a pathetic, squeaking creature at the mercy of lurking predators. And that break-in was a wake-up call. A sign that things are about to get pretty fucking uncomfortable. A sign that maybe they’re done with Eve’s world and are about to transition, fully, into Villanelle’s. 

“God help me,” Eve mumbles into the night. She’s about to try and bum a cigarette off a tourist when, from inside her bag, her phone starts ringing. Assuming it’s Villanelle, she reaches in and sends the call to voicemail without looking.  _ Not ready for that,  _ she thinks as she looks around, for the first time taking stock of where she’s ended up. She’s further from home than she realized. The crowd parts around her on the sidewalk, their faces half obscured in shadow and suddenly, Eve feels very, very exposed. 

Her phone rings again. Slowly, she pulls it out of her bag. The screen displays a nonsensical jumble of numbers. Against her better judgement, she accepts the call, holding the phone to her ear but staying silent. 

“Eve Polastri?” 

The voice is deep and synthesized. Distorted beyond recognition. A chill runs through Eve’s spine. Someone has picked up her scent. There’s a snake in the grass, flicking its tongue in the dark. 

“I’m sorry, you have the wrong num —” 

“Eve Park, then,” the voice cuts in. “That’s what it is now, right?” 

She needs to get rid of her phone. Throw it in the river. That would be the smart thing to do. But she’s gone through three phones already since leaving the hospital. All burners. If they found this number, they’ll find her again. They’ll always find her again. 

“You look good, for someone who’s dead,” the voice continues, unbothered by Eve’s silence. “Tricky business that is. I should know, I’ve had to do it a few times.” 

“Who are you?” She finds her voice again, a strangled thing, half whispered. Her feet are leading her somewhere. She hopes it’s not home. 

“Let’s say I’m a ghost. A friendly one, though. Like Casper.” 

“Casper the friendly ghost. Clever,” she snorts, her initial fear shedding like loose fur because she can do this. Has done this. Has played this game, one-on-one. She knows the moves, just needs to take it slow and control the ball. Let the clock run out. 

“Well, Casper, this has been a great conversation but I’m going to hang up now. I’d appreciate it if you left me alone.” 

“You’re not going to hang up.” 

“I’m not?” Eve snaps, waving a middle finger around just in case her new friend Casper is watching. “You sure?”

“You’re not.” the voice drawls. “Because I have something you want. Something you need.” 

“I don’t need anything from anyone.” 

“That’s not true,” the voice tuts. “By virtue of being alive we all have things we want and need. Eve Polastri may be dead, but Eve Park is very much alive, and therefore, has things she wants. Things she needs.” 

Eve swallows, wishing for that cigarette. That’s a thing she wants. The clarity that comes with a mouthful of smoke, the forced nihilism of seeing your breath with every exhale. And when she’s done she can snub it out on her hand and wake up from whatever is happening. 

“For example,” Casper continues. Whatever they’re using to disguise their voice, it’s good, Eve thinks, like listening to glass being shattered at infinite pitches. “Eve Park  _ wants _ to stay hidden. Wants to spin her straw into gold without anyone ever knowing. And it’s easy for her. She is very good at this, hiding in plain sight. She is quiet, unassuming. Like a mouse hidden in the walls.”

_ I’m not a mouse you ignorant fuck, _ Eve wants to bite back but she bites her tongue instead because she knows there’s power in being underestimated, in making people think you’re something you’re not. Let them think you’re a mouse right up until they grab your tail.

“But she also needs to keep her partner hidden. And  _ Oksana _ is not easy to hide. She attracts attention. She feeds on it. Even with a mousy wig and terrible hat and speaking Greek or Italian or French or wherever you are. You are trying to put a wolf in sheep’s clothing but sheep do not have teeth like hers.” 

“You leave her alone,” Eve growls, and if she shows too much of her own teeth so be it. Some things are off limits. 

“I don’t want her. I want you,” the voice says and Eve, admittedly is intrigued. Because if this person knows she’s alive and wants her, there are probably others who know she’s alive, but want her in a different way. A more dangerous way and danger, it turns out, is always interesting, even to a mouse. 

“I know you want to disrupt the Twelve. I know you are sitting on a lot of information right now, a lot of pieces, but you can’t figure out how they fit together. Because you don’t have the picture to match them to. You don’t know how to turn each piece to make them fit. You need the code, to make everything make sense.” 

“I don’t know about that. I’m pretty smart.” 

“You are,” the voice laughs. “In some ways. Keeping Oksana around for protection - that is very smart. Sticking your head in the tiger’s mouth, though? Very stupid.” 

Eve flashes back to earlier, to the feeling of the wood floor beneath her knees. The way Villanelle, ostensibly the tiger, lay prone for her, bucking greedily against her mouth. Thinks of all the times she’s wiped tears off Villanelle's cheeks as she comes back down, and smiles. 

“That’s debatable.” 

“Those who seek power by riding the back of the tiger foolishly end up inside.” 

“JFK,” Eve says, pausing on a bridge to watch the water move lazily under her. “Interesting choice. Why do you think you can help me?” 

“Because I helped make the puzzle.” 

“So let me get this straight.” Eve pushes herself off the railing. The night has gotten quiet around her. Only a certain kind of person is out at this hour and while Eve is one of them, she doesn’t want people to  _ know _ she’s one of them. 

“You call me out of the blue and want me to believe that you, with your cheesy friendly ghost shit, want to help me take down the organization you work for? Does that make sense to you? Whoever the fuck you are?” 

Silence rises between them like a concrete monolith. Eve imagines herself in a staredown with one of those human statues down in the tourist districts, waiting patiently to see who blinks first. When the voice returns, it’s heavy and serious. She feels it crackling through the static. 

“We both know, Eve, that I work for bad people. They look for any weakness they can find, that they can twist and exploit to make other people do bad things too. Things they don’t  _ want _ to do, but must. Money, addictions, friends, lovers, family — it doesn’t matter to them. It’s no way to live, in fear that someone will come in the night and slaughter your family because you’ve outlived your use.” 

“And what do you want from me?” Eve responds, slowly. “I’m assuming there’s a price for your help.” 

“There will be little jobs along the way. For me. Nothing you can’t handle. And maybe a few you will enjoy.” 

A cat hisses at Eve from an alley as she stomps past. This certainly isn’t the night she envisioned when she threw down for her first gelato. A part of her wants to go back in time to that dessert counter and try again, but another part wants to follow this thread just a little longer to see where it goes. It doesn’t matter anyways. You can never go back to before. Everything stops existing the moment you stop looking. It becomes a memory and memories are always,  _ always,  _ wrong. 

“I still don’t know if I can trust you.” 

“Trust me?” the voice chuckles. “Probably not. But my information is good. How about this — I give you a little something now. A show of good faith. With the house.” 

“On the house,” Eve mumbles. She files the mistake away for later. 

“Whatever. Here’s a question. If you had an important piece of merchandise out in the world, how would you make sure it wasn’t stolen? Or if it was, how would you make sure you could find it again?” 

“I don’t know,” Eve says, biting her lip. “I’d track it, somehow.” 

“Okay,” the voice says. “Now let’s say that important piece of merchandise has your secrets. It knows who you are and how you work. It would be very bad if that merchandise walked away and started talking to the wrong people. How would you stop that.” 

“I’d track them,” Eve answers, more confidently this time. “I’d know where they are all the time. Have something hidden on them.” 

“Ah. But,” they continue. “You have changed everything. Changed phones and bags and clothes and cars and guns. Like snakes, you have shed everything again and again. What is left to track, Eve? What is left?” 

Without a word, Eve ends the call, slides the phone into her pocket and turns toward home. One hand snakes into her bag, thumb sliding along the edge of a switchblade in time with each step. 


	2. Someone's got a secret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I may not totally agree with S3's take on Villanelle's character, but I do agree with making Villanelle a bit of a baby

Villanelle clocks Eve as she turns the corner onto their quiet street, the fourth-floor balcony giving her the clearance she needs to observe without being seen. She relaxes further into the curtain of shadows cast between the wall and the streetlight below, Eve’s reappearance righting something in Villanelle off in her absence, a wheel wobbling just slightly off its axis. A piston pumping just off time. She lets out a long exhale, wiping a bead of sweat as it rolls down her temple. Fitting their friend into a suitcase had been tricky, but the human body is surprisingly flexible if you are not afraid to snap a few bones. It does mean, however, that she owes Eve another new suitcase, hers now floating down the River Tiber, wannabe-assassin inside and hopefully leading anyone after them astray. They will need to leave in the morning, though. A shame — Rome suits Eve, ever the archaeologist, sifting through bone and ash. Cracking the great marble pillars holding aloft the empires, the old ways, with her deceptively strong hands. 

She observes long enough to ensure Eve has not picked up a tail, long enough to note that whatever was bothering Eve when she left has not been resolved. If anything it has, in fact, increased in volume, the buzzing energy of Eve’s brain at work audible even from several floors above. Something hums in Villanelle, a matching vibration. She smiles, cherishes the feeling for a moment, holds it as delicately as she can muster in fingers accustomed only to squeezing and crushing. 

Eve slips out of view as Villanelle slips back in through the balcony doors. The next part she has down to a science, a precise counting down of how long it takes Eve to unlock the building’s back door and climb the stairs up to their flat, factoring in the five second break she takes between the second and third floors to catch her breath. Villanelle has exactly enough time to lock the doors behind her, slip through the living room while giving it a once over to make sure no signs of their friend remain, glide down the hall into the kitchen, where she sticks the jug of bleach back under the sink and sets the now-rinsed chef’s knife back into its spot in the block, cross the kitchen, dining room and foyer, checking to make sure no blood trails were left on the wood floor, and open the front door just as Eve is about to slide her key in the lock. 

“There you are,” Villanelle says in greeting. “I was worried.” 

Eve raises an eyebrow in response, straightening from her hunched position but making no move to step inside. Villanelle crowds the doorframe, a hand on either side resting heavily on the wood trim. 

“What? There are people out there who want to kill you.” 

“As opposed to the person in here who only  _ used _ to want to kill me?” Eve answers, finally. 

“Yes,” Villanelle huffs. “They will not be nearly as nice about it as I am.” 

That earns her a smile, a small, bemused thing. Emboldened, Villanelle leans forward as Eve steps toward her, a hand reaching to softly cup Villanelle’s cheek. Eve’s eyes are dark, but warm and Villanelle can feel their cells stitch together where their skin touches. Raising up on her toes, Eve presses a kiss to the corner of Villanelle’s lips. She pulls back a fraction but lingers close, thumb drifting to wipe a bit of spaghetti sauce from the corner of Villanelle’s mouth because she had gotten dinner, _ thank-you-very-much _ . 

“That’s good,” Eve stage-whispers. “I don’t think you’d appreciate me sleeping with every assassin who shows up to try and kill me.” 

“You would certainly earn a reputation doing that,” Villanelle responds, cheekily. She turns her head to try and catch Eve in a kiss, a real one this time, but Eve instead uses the opening to slip by her, taking a few backward steps into the apartment. 

Villanelle senses, then, that the buzzing, humming energy around Eve has since honed into a sharp point, a wedge pointing directly at her. Ready to pry open some crack and dig into an unexplored part, pull it out with her hands to examine it. Unsure whether she should be afraid or excited, Villanelle settles into the root feeling, their base emotion - aroused. 

“I’d like to play a game,” Eve says. Dark curls spill over her near bare shoulders. Villanelle watches each one, the ends tickling soft skin. She feels it on her fingertips. 

“I like games,” Villanelle says, automatically. Something has shifted here. Eve has commanded it, bent it to her will. She searches Eve’s face but finds nothing. 

“Good. I think you’ll like this one too. Close the door and come here.” 

Shutting the door behind her, Villanelle takes two steps forward, her bare feet silent against the floor. The half-head of height she has over Eve no longer feels like an advantage, instead feels as if she is leaving all her vulnerable parts exposed. 

“Here’s the game,” Eve says, fingers reaching for Villanelle’s jacket, tugging the zipper open a few notches. As if she is unzipping Villanelle’s very skin. “I’m going to ask you some questions. You’re going to answer them. Tell the truth, and I’ll take off a piece of my clothing.” 

Villanelle was right. She does like games. Especially games that end in Eve naked. The truth, though? That she does not like as much. So often other people see truth as a solid, tenable thing. But for Villanelle, it has always been fluid. Like liquid slipping through her fingers, true for as long as it holds its shape. What does it matter, as long as someone believes it? This may be tricky. 

“But if you tell a lie,” Eve continues. “I’ll take off a piece of your clothing. Got it?” 

“How do we know who wins?” Villanelle asks, suspecting that, just by asking, she has already lost. 

“You’ll know. Ready?” 

It is a trap. A poorly laid one. Which also happens to be the kind Villanelle can resist the least. She smells the bait a mile off, sees the gleaming teeth and the hairpin trigger. Others may get snapped but Villanelle, Villanelle is fast enough. She is the exception. 

“Ready.” 

“How did Nadia track us down? Before you killed her.” 

Villanelle bites her lip, then shrugs, her brain attempting to churn out something plausible. 

“She must have tracked your phone. When you made the reservation on AirBnb.” 

“That’s one,” Eve tsks, wrenching apart the zipper in one viscous tug, then coming around Villanelle in one smooth motion to pull it off her shoulders, down her arms and onto the floor. A palm in the middle of her back urges Villanelle forward as she is marched through the apartment. The paintings on the wall watch, their eyes passive but judging. Villanelle hates art. 

When they reach the couch, two hands on her hips spin Villanelle around so she is facing Eve, their bodies flush. She lets out a breath, relaxing, for a moment, into the familiar curves. 

“How did Raymond find the safe house?” Eve’s eyes linger on Villanelle’s collarbone, on her throat. The trap, the gleaming teeth, fade from view and Villanelle only sees the bait. 

“He followed us from the motel, where you shot Konstantin,” Villanelle replies easily. “Then waited for me to leave in the morning.” 

With a small shake of her head, Eve swiftly undoes the buttons to Villanelle’s pants, dropping to her knees to pull the fabric down with alarming speed. Before Villanelle can even get a hand up, Eve is using her shoulder as a fulcrum to tip Villanelle back onto the couch, mounting Villanelle’s lap, a knee on either side of her thighs. 

“That’s two,” she says, slightly winded by the effort. Villanelle’s hands hang dumbly in the air, unsure of where she is allowed to touch. She is still aroused, even more so by the thin threads of danger unspooling from Eve’s fingertips. And when Eve’s arms wind around her neck, resting on her shoulders so they are pressed chest to chest, Villanelle cannot help as her face splits into a wide, toothy grin. 

“When do I get to ask a question?” she asks, knowing the answer. 

“You don’t,” Eve answers. “When were you going to tell me the Twelve use tracking implants and that’s how they keep finding us?” 

Villanelle does not surprise easily. Mostly because she holds very little expectation from one moment to the next, preferring to experience in the actual moment, adapt in that moment, rather than try to predict what may come. Keeping herself as fluid as the truth spilling from her mind and out her lips. 

But on the couch, with Eve in her lap, arms cinching tighter around her neck? Villanelle is surprised. 

“Um,” she manages, weakly. “Right now?” 

The trap snaps shut on her hand. Her world goes dark as Eve yanks her shirt roughly up over her head. Blinking away staticky, flyaway hair, Villanelle finds herself staring at the point of her pearl-handled switchblade. 

“Told you you’d know,” Eve says. Sitting back on Villanelle’s thighs, she lowers the knife, jabbing it gently against Villanelle’s ribs. 

“What is that for?” Villanelle asks, wincing. 

“We’re going to cut it out.” 

************************************************

The bathroom tile is cold against Villanelle’s back as she stares up at the ceiling and into the overhead light. The effect is dizzying, like at any moment gravity will release its hold and she will float up and up and up. 

Eve kneels between her knees, anchoring her. Fingers slide against Villanelle’s stomach, catching her attention. She breaks her staring contest with the light to look down her torso at Eve who, after admitting the switchblade was mostly for dramatic effect, pulled out a much more sensible scalpel-like tool, along with needle and thread for stitching her up, gauze pads and a bottle of something dark, for sterilizing. 

“Wow,” Villanelle remarks as her muscles under Eve’s fingertips jump at the touch. “I did not know we were at the point in our relationship where we perform minor medical procedures on each other.” 

“Oh yeah,” Eve says, softly. “Four months is the antiseptic anniversary. Didn’t you know?” 

Villanelle finds her fingers have laced with Eve’s and she is pulled up into a sitting position, the world spinning a few times until she finds her equilibrium in Eve’s lips, in the whisper of a kiss. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Eve asks, her eyes searching, poking, pressing Villanelle where her fingers cannot. 

“Because it is humiliating,” Villanelle says, unwinding her fingers from Eve’s to rub a hand across her face. “Being tagged, like an animal. Being owned. They own everything — your house, your life, even your body belongs to them.  _ My _ body belongs to them.” 

Something passes over Eve’s face. Villanelle expects something akin to pity, to wide, watery eyes and trembling lips but this is hard, a flashover so bright and hot Villanelle imagines it igniting the room. Barely contained fury. 

A steady pressure on her chest eases Villanelle back down, her back flat against the floor, head resting on a rolled up towel. She closes her eyes, but the overhead light is burned into her eyelids, an angry red star swelling and consuming against the blackness. Between her knees, Eve shifts, opening things and moving them. There is the cold, wet sting of an antiseptic pad swiping against the left side of her stomach, just below her last rib, then … nothing. 

“Um, Eve?” she asks, eyes still closed. “Are you still there?” 

“We don’t have to do this,” Eve says in a rush. Villanelle’s eyes jerk open and she props herself up on her elbows. Eve is holding the scalpel as if it is a stick of dynamite, as if it might explode as the slightest touch. 

“What?” 

“We don’t - if you don’t want to,” Eve tries to answer, her words in a jumble. It would be cute if she were not about to perform minor surgery on Villanelle. Apparently frustrated with herself, she takes a deep, steadying breath. 

“We don’t have to do this,” she continues. “I know I made a big show about it in the living room, but mostly I was just on a weird power trip. It’s … it’s your body. If you say no, it stops and we can get up and go to bed.” 

“And then do what?” 

“We’ll figure something out,” Eve says. “We always do.” 

Villanelle huffs out a laugh because, figure something out? Figure out how to run when the person chasing knows where you are? That is not running. That is waiting to die. Eve was right, all that time ago. They were going to lose. Because they need to get lucky every time and the Twelve only need to get lucky once. They would get their Bonnie and Clyde moment, but Villanelle thinks Eve may have something more planned for them. Something bigger. 

Reaching, Villanelle grasps Eve’s wrist, the one holding the scalpel, and brings it toward her as she tips, again, back against the floor. 

“Do it,” she says, closing her eyes again. “Please.” 

She feels the cool press of the blade against her stomach, the stretch of Eve’s other hand pulling the skin taught, and tenses reflexively. Every instinct warning her, reminding her of what happens when she lets people this close. Each memory rolling through her like a thundering echo, phantom pains from a lifetime ago, buried deep but still layered into the bedrock. 

“I’ve never done anything like this before,” Eve says. She means it to be a whisper, but the tile and marble of the bathroom bounce the sound around, amplifying it like an opera hall. 

“That is exactly what I want to hear right now,” Villanelle says, bringing an arm up to cover her eyes. 

“It’s okay to be afraid, you know.” 

“I am not afraid,” Villanelle huffs.

“Really? Then why do you keep flinching?” 

With her eyes closed, Villanelle feels Eve’s voice everywhere, cutting right to the heart of her, the same as the scalpel. 

“I am ticklish,” Villanelle answers, her accent breaking over the syllables. “You are tickling me.” 

“You are not,” Eve says, laughing under her breath. “You have ... too much control to be ticklish. Most of the time.” 

“Most?” Villanelle asks. The blade presses against her, harder this time and she inhales. It is sharp, so the first cut will not be so painful. After, though. “When do I not have control?” 

“With me, I think.” Eve is concentrating hard, Villanelle can hear it in her voice. She imagines Eve’s tongue caught between her teeth, the way it is when she is her most focused, her brain the most loud. “When you’re with me, you let some of that go. Not all. But some.” 

There is a pressure on her abdomen, now, pressing her down. She fights every electrical current coursing through her nerves, urging her to buck her hips against Eve’s hold, then knock her to the floor and strangle her. Her fingers twitch, like a cat dreaming of pouncing on a mouse. 

“Tell me. What does it feel like?” 

Villanelle is unsure whether Eve is asking about the burning pain radiating from her stomach or the listless nothing she sinks into to escape it. Escape the gnawing hole, the unrelenting  _ absence  _ of something she is owed, something whispered to her in dreams, a collective memoriam she has been separated from, cut out of. She can see it. It is wild and expansive and infinite and built for her but it is beyond the fence and she is trapped in a cage meant to feel the same but not be the same. So she paces the edge and dreams and paces and dreams until she is so tired that the dreams do not come. Until her eyes slide closed and she hears only whispering echoes of whatever is beyond. But with Eve? With Eve it is like her eyes are open again. Like she is seeing it again, feeling its promise. Like her face is pressed against the fence so hard the wires bite into her skin, not quite there but the closest she has ever been. So close she can taste it, almost. 

When she opens her eyes again, she is tucked into Eve’s chest, heaving hot breaths against Eve’s skin. Her cheeks are wet and sticky - had she been crying? Is she a baby? Beneath her, Eve is sitting propped up against the hard side of the bathtub. It cannot be comfortable, but she does not complain, only gently wipes away the hot streaks of tears from Villanelle’s cheeks, murmuring into Villanelle’s hair until her breathing steadies once more. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another unreasonably long chapter! 
> 
> As always, you can find me on Tumblr @vaultdweller or on Twitter @vaultdwellerke1


	3. I can’t see the future but I know it’s watching me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please allow a certain suspension of disbelief here. I know only how American trains work. Also I'm not sure how these chapters have grown so long

Villanelle thinks it’s a trap. 

She tells Eve so, sprawled on top of her like a boney, wiry blanket as they sit in bed, not sleeping. Due in large part to the gaping fucking hole where their bedroom window used to be. The maw of shattered glass invites in a nice breeze, yes, but they’re both nervous of what else it will invite in too. 

“It is so obvious,” she says into Eve’s sweaty neck. Heat rolls off Villanelle’s body, her own personal stifling sauna. They stick together everywhere they touch. “I cannot believe you are falling for it. You are smarter than that.”

“I’m not so sure,” Eve says, though the jury’s out on whether she means about the trap or her being ‘smarter than that.’ Probably both, to some degree. 

“Eve, look at me. You are being … what is the word?” Villanelle looks up at her with wide, imploring eyes. 

“Catfished?” 

“Yes,” she nods, solemnly. “You are being cat-fished.” 

“Maybe so,” Eve says with a laugh. “Maybe I’m being catfished. Maybe at the other end of this is some Twelve operative selling fake secrets like a bad Tinder profile. Maybe this is all a ploy to get me close enough to kill me.” 

Villanelle nods slowly, humming her agreement into Eve’s chest, a low vibrating against her ribs. 

“But,” Eve continues. “But they would need to let me in close. And that’s all I need. Someone to let me get just close enough. Because the thing about a trap is, it always tells you something about the person who set it. Something they don’t want you to know.” 

Pushing herself up, Villanelle brings her face level with Eve’s, wincing a little as her stitches pull. Her eyes catch the moonlight off the broken glass and Eve is falling again, tumbling headfirst into twin reflecting pools, clear but bottomless. 

“You are doing this,” she says. A statement, not a question. Eve barely sees her lips move, so hypnotized she is by Villanelle’s stare. Like she wants to absorb as much of the other woman as she can before she disappears into ether. 

“Yes. I am. But,” Eve swallows. The words stick in her mouth as she tries to push them out. “But this is what I need. And I … understand. If it’s not what you need. It’s a lot to ask, for you to hop on to some stupidly dangerous, probably doomed mission.” 

Villanelle watches her for a long moment. Behind her, Eve sees that long stretch of highway pointing toward the mountains, straight and infinite. She knows what she wants, but she won’t push. Can’t push. Not here. The stakes are too high, and not just concerning the Twelve, but concerning the two of them, their tenuous relationship, as well. 

“I would like to be your partner, in this and … other things,” Villanelle says, finally. The weight of the words pushes against them like water against the wall of a dam, spilling over. “If you will have me.” 

“Of course,” Eve breathlessly replies. Probably too quick to really consider the implications of what’s being said, but quick enough to beat the deep seated fear that if she takes too long, Villanelle might rescind her offer. 

“Good,” Villanelle says, lips playing at a cocky smirk. Still propped up on her elbows, her eyes slide closed as she inhales, deeply, then wrinkles her nose. 

“Ugh, but first, I want to shower. I will miss the water pressure here.” 

A tangle of limbs, Villanelle scrambles carefully out of bed, bouncing lightly at the edge. She hisses, a sharp intake of breath as fingers grab her side. 

“Can you manage by yourself?” Eve asks, more teasing than anything, but there’s concern, and a promise too, if Villanelle wants it. 

“Are you offering to help?” Villanelle says, sly, over her bare shoulder. It’s a dripping flirt, so sweet it’s almost sour and Eve feels it on the tip of her tongue. 

“Go get the water warm, hotshot,” Eve says, nudging Villanelle’s back lightly, lightly with her foot. “I’ll be in in a minute.” 

Apparently satisfied, Villanelle glides through the door leading to the bathroom. Outside, the Roman sun begins to rise again, the first of the day’s light peeking over the horizon, slipping through cracks between buildings. It’s going to be a red morning. Eve watches the faded white walls warm to a soft pink. There’s a warning here, in all of this. Eve wonders for a moment what the Romans saw on the last morning of their empire. Was it clear blue, or red like blood?

Licks of steam from the shower are just beginning to creep back through the doorway when her phone vibrates against the antique wood of the nightstand in a low, jarring rumble. She’s relieved, in the way the condemned must be when the executioner finally starts his swing. Relief that the waiting is over. They can get to the next part now. She accepts the call and brings the phone to her ear.

“Rome is burning, Eve,” the now familiar yet still unsettling voice says. “The barbarians are at the gates. Will you fiddle? Or flee?” 

“Hello to you too,” Eve deadpans. “You know, Nero didn’t fiddle while Rome burned. He wasn’t even in Rome. And the fiddle hadn’t been invented yet. Also he wasn’t even the emperor when Rome fell. Those two events had nothing to do with each other.” 

“Is this what she has to put up with?” the voice at the other end laughs. “You are not as smart as you think you are.” 

“Maybe,” Eve counters. “But you also could have learned all that in about three Google searches. Two if you’re smart about it.” 

“The point stands. Where there is smoke, there is fire. And from where I’m sitting, I’m seeing a lot of smoke.” 

“Where is that?” More laughter erupts through the phone, great barks of it. 

“I don’t think so. Have you thought at all about my offer?”

“Can’t blame a girl for trying,” Eve says. Villanelle is humming in the bathroom now, some 80’s power ballad and Eve twirls a twisting curl around her finger, impatient. “I’m not afraid of burning my life down to get what I want. But …” 

She pauses, searching for the words. Searching for the lever that brings the nose up, wheels off the ground instead of letting them continue on this long, level runway forever. 

“But I think maybe this time, instead of standing in the ashes, in my ashes, I’d like to be the one holding the match. Burning someone else’s life down, for once.” 

Somewhere, in some dark corner of the universe, tucked into the space between dimensions, a clock starts, each tick of its golden hands unspooling a tiny bit of thread, though whether it’s counting up or down, whether the thread grows loose or tight, Eve can’t discern yet. 

“Good. I have the first piece of the puzzle ready. Along with a small favor for me. It is downstairs, in your mailbox. Make sure to get it on your way out. I would move quickly, if I were you.” 

Eve rises from the bed, itching to get to the bathroom, to Villanelle. This all feels too secretive to her, like she is cheating on Villanelle, somehow. Keeping something from her. She’s never been religious, but she’s feeling a sudden need to get into the shower and do some penance.

“Oh and Eve,” the voice catches her. “Before you go, I have a question.” 

“Shoot.” 

“Do you believe there are things in this world worth saving?” 

Villanelle chooses that moment to duck her head back into the room, a silent whine on her lips. She’s naked, her cheeks flushed from the heat and humidity and her hair cascades around her shoulders like a golden waterfall. The walls around her are red now and Villanelle, Villanelle is a vision. A goddess against a backdrop of blood. 

“Yeah,” Eve says, captivated. “I do.” 

“Then we will work together just fine. Let me know when you are finished.” 

Eve’s hardly listening as she ends the call and trails after Villanelle like a spellbound thrall. 

**********

True to their new friend’s word, there’s a slip of paper waiting in their mailbox at the bottom of the stairs on the way out of their chic Roman apartment building. The black-and-white checkered pattern on the floor always made Eve dizzy if she stared at it too long and now, with fire licking at their heels, the tiles blend together and elongate the foyer into something interminable. 

Eve expects an envelope, something with a bit of drama built in. The rustled fumbling as she runs a finger down the seam carefully, pulling apart the adhesive while contaminating as little as possible to preserve for evidence. The unfolding of a card, reading something cryptic, perhaps in code, and piecing together the cipher, her and Villanelle, their two brains humming and firing together as one. 

Instead, she gets a postcard. So thrown off she is that she spoils herself of the mystery almost immediately, flipping past whatever famous artwork adorns the front with all the grace of a child shaking their birthday cards out for money. There’s no puzzle on the back, nothing for them to solve, no rush, only five lines - an address, an instruction, and a signature. Gold Lion. A codename. 

“Can I see it?” Villanelle asks, standing on her tiptoes to see over Eve’s shoulder. Disappointment utterly palpable, Eve nods and Villanelle’s fingers, greedy and quick, snatch the postcard as she turns around to study the document in private, like it’s some sort of secret. 

But soon, though, Villanelle is … laughing? Eve cranes her head closer, tries to get a peek at what’s so amusing but Villanelle just laughs and laughs, what starts as a single bark growing into a full guffaw, head thrown back in true, uninhibited glee. 

“Care to share with the rest of the class?” 

“This,” Villanelle manages between wiping tears from her cheeks. “Where your friend is sending us. It is my old apartment in Paris.” 

***********************************

“Eve, I have some bad news.” 

They’re standing in the bustling Roma Termini, the transit station swollen with commuters and tourists jostling together like a hive of bees, driven by unseen forces inscrutable to the outside observer. Ever the quick study, Eve drops into the current, letting herself be guided by the tides as Villanelle ventures off to the ticket counter to book their apparent train trip to Paris. But where Eve rides the waves, Villanelle parts them, a vision in the last of her high-end designer clothes she couldn’t bear to part with. 

“They seized our fake passports and we’re about to be arrested?” 

“No,” Villanelle answers, her lip jutting out just so. 

“There’s been a terrorist attack and all transit across Europe has been stopped.” 

“No,” Villanelle whines this time. 

“The bar’s closed?” 

Villanelle shakes her head and takes a deep, pained breath. 

“There were no first class compartments available. We are going to have to travel —” Villanelle’s face breaks in a devastating way and despite herself, Eve feels her heart lurch “— in coach.” 

“Oh honey,” Eve responds, her voice patronizing. Both hands reach up to squeeze Villanelle’s cheeks and pull her head down to plant a kiss on her forehead. “If that’s the worst thing that happens to us this trip it will be the best trip we’ve ever had.” 

An hour later their train, sleek and red, pulls into the station. At once, the area under the departures and arrivals signboard comes alive as travelers push and shove to get to their assigned gate. On the platform, Villanelle pouts wistfully as they huff past the first class compartments near the train’s back and instead haul their rolling luggage to the front of the train and the rows of coach seats. 

“See, look Villanelle, these aren’t so bad,” Eve remarks over her shoulder as they find their assigned seats. “They’re basically airplane seats without the awkward one in the middle and look, there’s even more legroom.” 

Behind her, Villanelle grumbles something unflattering in French as Eve hoists her suitcase into the overhead compartment and slides toward the window seat, marveling at how far she can stretch her legs. Way better than a plane. 

“I don’t know what all the complaining was about,” Eve continues, lowering herself into the seat. “You can handle this for a few hours. How long is the trip?” 

Pulling out their ticket, Villanelle does some quick counting with the help of her fingers before answering helpfully, “Fifteen hours.” 

“What?” Eve stands abruptly, hitting her head on the overhead compartment, as if sitting fully would condemn her to this hellishly long journey. “I thought Europe was covered in high speed rails.” 

Now it’s Villanelle’s turn to look infuriatingly nonplussed as she shrugs, depositing herself in the aisle seat. 

“I guess that is high speed,” she answers, voice uncharacteristically neutral. “Why? Is there something wrong with being so close to me for fifteen hours?” 

“Now you’re fishing,” Eve says, dropping back into her seat. Villanelle’s hands are immediately poking through her bag, trying to find her secret candy stash no doubt, and Eve swats them away. 

“Fishing?” 

“For compliments.” 

Villanelle watches her, eyebrows screwed in concentration and Eve can see her tongue working over her teeth as she tries to piece this new phrase together. 

“But you are hooked, no?” she says carefully before straightening up in her seat to preen. “On me. So you  _ should  _ compliment me.” 

“You’re a lunatic,” Eve laughs, shoving a chocolate bar toward Villanelle. “Come on, what do you want to do? Wait, let me guess, you want to —” 

“Watch a movie,  _ please, _ ” Villanelle cuts in and it’s the ‘please’, really, that fucking gets Eve. It sounds so restrained coming from Villanelle, like there’s all this want built up but she’s bending, bending for Eve. 

“Of course,” Eve says, already pulling out her laptop and headphones. She hands one ear to Villanelle as she brings up their movie library. 

“Can we watch Casablanca?” Villanelle asks, dropping her head onto Eve’s shoulder, fingers dancing along Eve’s forearm, waiting for a hand to be free. 

“Sweetheart, we can watch Casablanca four times and still have eight hours to kill,” she says, lacing their fingers together as the movie begins. 

*********************************************

Villanelle makes it to La Marseillaise, the rousing battle of national anthems, before zonking on Eve’s shoulder, soft little snores tickling Eve’s neck. That’s one advantage, Eve figures, of being trained as an international assassin — Villanelle can sleep anywhere, anytime. The train rocks lightly as it emerges from a tunnel and Villanelle clings to her like a baby koala. 

Now alone, Eve watches as Rick and Ilse have a ‘Come to Jesus’ moment on the foggy Moroccan runway, Humphrey Bogart telling Ingrid Bergman in no uncertain terms that she’s getting on that plane without him, that where he’s going, she can’t follow. That they’ll always have Paris. 

Eve’s eyes are drawn to the blonde head on her shoulder. What would they have, just the two of them? If they were wrenched apart, would there be something they could hold on to, together? A permanent, peaceful retreat? Or would they evaporate from each other’s lives, gone up in smoke? 

As the credits roll, Eve realizes she needs to pee. And take a walk. And probably a smoke. Carefully, she closes her laptop and tucks it under her seat while fishing out her bag and quickly, quickly sliding it under Villanelle’s head to replace her shoulder. Villanelle grumbles, softly, then nuzzles into the worn leather and goes still. 

Navigating down the aisles feels a bit wobbly, but by the time Eve’s three cars down she’s gotten her sea legs, striding confidently past rows of seats occupied, mostly, by sleeping passengers. The cabin lights are dark and Eve’s path is lit only by a strip of LED lights along the floor but she takes passing note of the other travelers, keeping an eye out for anyone who seems out of place. Finally, she finds a restroom compartment with no line and slips in, the space somehow more cramped than an airplane toilet. With every bump, the single light flickers, creating a strobe effect that leaves Eve feeling somewhat outside of herself as she stands, hunched, in front of the small, stained mirror, watching herself bounce around like a pinball stuck between bumpers, washing her hands. 

She looks harder, she thinks. Her pupils darker, her jaw set. There’s something behind her eyes, now. Something that wasn’t there before. Or maybe it was and she just never noticed. The scar on her nose is just a shadow, just a ghost of wounds past. 

She thinks of what Villanelle said, about how this is all a trap. How trusting she’s being. How foolish. How it’s not just her, caught up in this vortex, but another person. Villanelle. She’s stuck on a checkers board, moving from square to square while everyone around them plays chess. They aren’t even on the same plane. She needs to get ahead. When the stakes are high, when the stakes are literally life and death, you need to stack the deck. 

The only people who play fair are losers. The only people who fight fair are dead. 

Eve resolves, right there in the train toilet, to be neither. 

She slides open the restroom door, the train deciding right then to take a hard turn, sending her pitching into the man waiting patiently outside for Eve to finish her crisis. He catches her, lightly, helping her find her footing in the dark between cars. 

“Sorry,” she mumbles, straightening her jacket. He says something back, his voice lightly accented with something decidedly un-Italian, something harder. Slavic. She studies him as best she can under the rolling shadows before he disappears into the liminal dimension of the train toilet. Eve files his face away in her brain like a photo tucked into a wallet, something about it not sitting right with her. Making her itch. 

She picks her way further down the train to the dining car, both because she’s feeling the overwhelming urge to stress eat and because it’s the only non-quiet car left at this time of night. It’s mostly empty and besides the employees there’s only one other couple tucked away, whispering to each other in hushed tones. Eve slides into the last booth, her back against the door, facing the way she just came. Just in case. She takes out her phone — luckily it still has a signal in whatever tunnel they’re hurtling through and dials a number she swore, she  _ swore _ she’d never use again. The call connects, a sleepy, muffled “hello” sneaks through from the other end. 

“Hugo?” 

“Eve?” he answers, significantly more alert but still groggy. It’s late wherever he is. Good. “Jesus. Never thought I’d hear from you again.” 

“I bet. Where are you?” 

“Where are you?” Hugo answers and god, Eve hasn’t missed that smarmy tone. “It’s late, but I can come to you if you want.” 

“What? No,” Eve chokes, her eyes darting around the empty car. “This isn’t a bootycall, Hugo. I need your help.” 

“Huh,” he says after a long moment. “I don’t think anyone’s ever called asking for my help before.” 

“You’re my only hope,” Eve replies, hoping she layers on just the right amount of desperation. “You may have heard, I’m not exactly with MI6 anymore.” 

“I may have heard some things.” 

“Well, I’ve picked up some other … work. Something good. But I need help,” she says. “Under the table, if you know what I mean.” 

“I know what you mean,” he answers, despite definitely not knowing what any of this means. “I can help. But what’s in it for me?” 

Classic Hugo, she thinks. 

“A chance to be a part of something bigger,” she says. “A chance to show your coworkers you’re more than just a pretty Oxford rich boy. More than daddy’s money. Plus you get to work with me. And I’m fun.” 

“You are,” he says and there’s that smarm again. Growing under her skin like a mold. She wants a shower. 

“Great,” she says through clenched teeth. “You can start now, I’m going to text you an address. See if you can dig in to who owns the building. Thanks.” 

At that moment, the door at the other end of the dining car slides open and in steps the mysterious stranger from the toilet. He looks inconspicuous enough, but Eve can tell from the way he’s favoring his left side he’s carrying a weapon, concealed under his jacket in a shoulder holster. He takes a seat in the booth diagonally across from Eve, facing her, phone on the table but Eve can see his eyes watching her reflection in the window. 

“Shit,” she says, a low whisper. In her ear, Hugo’s asking what’s going on but she ends the call before he can get too loud. She can’t have any distractions, not now. 

Phone still held to her ear, she makes a choice. There’s only two directions to go and one leads him right to Villanelle. She turns, using her foot to trigger the door she was just sitting against and steps through to the connector between cars. In the window, she sees the man rise to follow her. She has no idea what she’s going to do, but she hopes she figures something out before she reaches the end of the train. 

The next door deposits her into the sleeping compartments. Rather than long, straight aisles, the hallway here turns at sharp angles around the cabins, creating areas that are totally obscured. Easier to hide, maybe, but harder to put distance between herself and the intruder. She feels like a rat running through a maze but that’s not quite it - she’s a rat being driven toward a dead end. Her heart thuds in her ears, her limbs are lights and not quite in her control, adrenaline flowing through them like gasoline alight, the ground under her feet, under the train, whizzing by at unnatural speeds. She snakes around another corner, the din of the train muffling most sounds but she hears her pursuer’s footsteps like hammers beating against a drum. Fuck her and her stupid bladder. And fuck Hugo too. Eve isn’t quite sure why, but she’s sure he deserves it. 

She reaches the compartment’s back door and slams the button to let her through. The area between cars back here is larger than before, a full two strides and it takes Eve by surprise, that she can’t just slip through and slam the door in the man’s face to buy precious seconds. Precious seconds that slip through her fingers like water as strong fingers curl around her elbow before she can open the second door. Instead she’s slammed against it, the man’s forearm pressing hard against her throat. 

Eve looks for his eyes in the dark and finds them shining and empty. She recognizes the look, the glassy, soulless look of someone about to do something so horrible they have to divorce their mind from their body to carry it out. She feels him fumbling against her, trying to eke out enough space to pull out his gun. It’s loud enough here to muffle the shot. They probably won’t find her until morning, until some rich old lady makes her way to the dining car for some coffee. What a way to go. 

Just then, the door behind the man whizzes open and Eve is suddenly free of his crushing weight as he’s wrenched backward, his head slammed into the hard metal wall again and again. Villanelle, eyes blazing with fury, digs her nails into his face, rivers of blood streaming down from half-moon cuts as he goes limp. Without looking at Eve, she kicks the lever opening the door to the outside and uses her hips to get enough leverage to hurl the man onto the tracks. The door closes behind him with a vacuum sealed thump and Eve is left staring at the space he’d occupied only a moment ago. 

Villanelle is on her in a second, hands prying away Eve’s own fingers to check her throat for marks. Eve fights her, some instinct belatedly kicking in until Villanelle grabs both her hands and Eve finds some grounding in that, in the great gulps of air rushing back into her lungs. 

“God, I hope we didn’t just kill some random businessman,” she manages through gasping inhales. 

“Not unless businessmen now make a habit of carrying,” Villanelle remarks, holding up the man’s pistol before tucking it into her waistband. 

“Not outside of America they don’t.” 

Eve is marched back to their seats, feeling a bit like a scolded toddler. She’d argued that she doesn’t  _ need  _ an escort, except that she’s proven rather handedly that she does, so she stays silent until she drops back into her seat and Villanelle tucks, rather tightly, a blanket over them. Beneath the cover, their fingers twine, Villanelle’s wrapping around hers like a vice. 

“Hey,” Eve says, just low enough to be respectful of the other sleeping passengers. Villanelle’s head tilts toward her from its spot on her shoulder. “That thing you did back there? When you grabbed that man and tossed him onto the tracks? That was pretty hot.” 

“Now you are understanding compliments.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, come find me on Tumblr @Vaultdweller or Twitter @Vaultdwellerke1


	4. I know that time is elastic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for Dina aka @Imunbreakabledude here and @not_breakable on Twitter you can all thank her for helping bring me back

Paris welcomes Villanelle like a long lost lover. 

It pulls on her, tugs like a pushy current in an otherwise serene sea. She feels the caress of it on her cheek, in her hair, under her feet in the steady, stable cobblestones. Her colors rise to match it, the harsh reds and whites of Rome mellowing to blush pink and champagne as she takes in her surroundings, the frivolity of it, this ageless city. Rome was ageless to, but in a way that demanded something from her, a sacrifice. A blood price for eternity. It was swim or be eaten in Rome, but here, in Paris, Villanelle can just float. Her jaw rounds, the corners, the vowels loosen, as if she is balancing a grape on her tongue. 

But as hard as the city is working to seduce Villanelle, as much as she would love to fall back into its arms, into the mindless, thoughtless indulgence, she recognizes the once comforting pull for what it is — an undertow, a siren song to lure her into deep water, only to drag her down into its vacuous depths. 

As much as Paris may suit Villanelle, it does not similarly suit Eve. She bristles almost immediately as they exit the station and spill out into the fresh air. Villanelle eyes Eve as she moodily tucks her laptop bag under her shoulder, keeping a hand firmly on the zipper, grumpy but letting Villanelle lead. Ceding control. She wonders if the city has marked Eve, somehow, as an intruder, a trespasser from another life, another time, stealing away what it once owned. A younger Villanelle, a different Villanelle, would have groused at Eve’s attitude, become petulant as Eve failed to appreciate such pretty, pretty things. But Villanelle has learned. She has learned! She has done what others believed she could not, what others tried to beat into her but never stuck. Her hand dances to the nape of Eve’s neck, fingers tangling in curls and the twin flints in Villanelle’s brain strike and strike and strike each other until they spark, a feeling igniting the dried, dead leaf litter of old lives and fed by the whipping wind inside her chest. She wants to kiss Eve because Villanelle knows two truths now, two whole true things: 

First, that Eve, fresh off a 15 hour train ride and an attempt on her life, is prettier than all of Paris could hope to be and, 

Eve looks at Villanelle, in all her hollow, sharp, raw, rotten, terrible splendor, like she is home. Like not just their skin, but their vessels, their nerves have sewn together. It is powerful, this feeling. Heady. Dangerous. A top upon a table, spinning and spinning and spinning, waiting for a hand to knock it off. Villanelle is hypnotized by it. 

In her chest, a pop of heat. Flames dancing at the base of her throat. 

Villanelle wants to kiss Eve, so she does, tugging at Eve’s neck. She catches Eve by surprise and their lips mash together. It is awkward and stinging and tastes a bit like old coffee and is not at all romantic like the city calls for. 

It is perfect. 

Pulling back slightly, she stares at Eve, at the confused little curl in her eyebrow. A car impatiently honks a harsh F-sharp, poking them, prodding them. To be fair, they are in the middle of the street staring at each other like fools. But this is Paris, Villanelle reasons, and if she cannot be foolish here what is the point? She flips the car off but walks backward the rest of the way across the street, tugging Eve along as muscle memory takes over, slipping into the well-worn treads of past-Villanelle, the slipstream. If she closes her eyes and drops Eve’s hand she could be there again, returning after a job, arms laden with shopping bags and buzzing with the high of a fresh kill. If she closes her eyes she will be there again so she keeps them open, wide and set straight ahead. 

“Remind me again what this note is all about?” Eve pipes up from somewhere slightly behind her, breaths coming in huffs as she tries to keep up with Villanelle’s longer legs and athletic prowess. “‘Madame is watching. Find her books?’ Who the hell is this  _ madame _ ?” 

“Ugh,” Villanelle groans, near involuntarily. “Madame was the nosy woman who lived across the hall. Always watching when I came home. Always ‘tut-tutting’ whenever I brought someone back. Or someones —”

“Which I’m sure was quite often.” 

“Are you jealous, Eve?” Villanelle smiles even as she faces away from Eve. 

“No,” Eve laughs, tugging sharply at Villanelle’s hand. “No, definitely not. Not of that, anyway.” 

Villanelle files that away for later because they are turning now down a familiar alley. Almost imperceptibly, her feet seem to grow heavier with each step, like those ankle weights they used to strap to her when she was made to jog through the snow to toughen her up. Her shoulders sag and, is there a buzzing, somewhere? It is low, a whispering static but it is very distracting. So distracting she does not realize they have reached the apartment building until her feet root in place, stopping so abruptly Eve collides with her shoulder. 

_ What is happening here? _ Villanelle wonders what has come over her, whether the Twelve hid a secret killswitch somewhere inside her and finally flipped it, disabling her muscles, leaving her to stand dumbly in front of this quaint apartment block in a fashionable but understated Parisian neighborhood. Only five floors but it towers over them, over her, like a monument to something, or the absence of it. A mausoleum. That it could exist without her, without Villanelle’s sight keeping it real, unsettles her, shakes loose the dead leaves and dust in her lungs. How dare it, she thinks. How dare it exist without her permission. Her knees shake, softly. 

“Villanelle?” Eve calls softly, inches from her ear but sounding miles away, underwater. Muffled and distant. Then there are two hands on her cheeks, warm and solid, squishing them together as her vision swims with Eve and her eyebrow curl. 

“Hey,” she coos and since when does Villanelle need to be coo’ed at? She is a big scary assassin, thank you. “I’ve got this. Why don’t you wait out here?” 

“No, Eve,” Villanelle answers, trying to tug her face away but Eve’s grip is surprisingly strong and maybe she is not so scary after all. Maybe she is a tiny rodent with cheek pouches. Do they even have teeth? “I can do it. I can go in.” 

“Oh I’m sure you can,” Eve returns and now there is cheek  _ stroking  _ and is this patronizing? Is she being patronized? She pouts, helplessly. “But I’m also sure this  _ madame  _ will sound the alarm as soon as she sees you on her doorstep again. You’re not exactly easy to forget.” 

Villanelle hums in agreement because Eve has a point, and not just because of the compliment. 

“Two floors up and to the right, yeah?” Villanelle nods between Eve’s hands. 

“Do you think,” Eve bites her lip, looking to the front door then back to Villanelle. “Do you think she’ll put up a fight?” 

“Please, Eve,” Villanelle sputters, her cheeks still squashed together, lips puckered like a fish. “She is a tiny old lady. She will probably blow right down like you are the … um … who is it?” 

“Big bad wolf?” 

“Mhmm that is you,” she continues. “Big bad wolf. Now hurry along, Goldilocks, someone is about to come through the door.” 

“That’s not … oh whatever.” 

*************************

The door looks the same. 

Villanelle is … not quite sure why she thought it would be different. Why she thought, in her absence, everything would shift like one of those children’s telescopes with patterns that tilt and change with a twist of the handle. Kaleidoscopes. Like Villanelle is the glue holding this world together. She should be, but she is learning ‘should be’ and ‘are’ can be different. 

For example, the lock on the apartment should be sturdy. It should be there to keep out intruders, unwanted guests. But while the French doors are heavy and beautiful, their design creates an inherent flaw, a weak point at their juncture. They are susceptible to being kicked in, just above the lock. They are likely to splinter apart where the bolts meet. 

It is simple physics, really.

And besides, Villanelle is not an intruder, not a rude brute barging in. She belongs here. She is coming …

Home? 

It has been four minutes. Eve and  _ madame  _ are across the hall. Villanelle can just hear their voices, ears tuned to Eve’s voice. A thick layer of dust coats the doorknob to her old flat. No one has been here in some time. It is waiting for her. It is waiting for her to … 

Villanelle stands straight, hips slightly open for momentum. She raises her foot, leg bent perpendicular to the door, her brain running a quick calculation, factoring the angle, the age of the wood, thickness of the bolts and the soles of her shoes, before sending a signal to her hips, her quads and her abs to ram her heel into the door’s sweet spot. 

As predicted, the French doors split open at the lock with a satisfying crack. Rattling in their frame, each half swings inward, lazily, revealing the entryway. Villanelle stands for a moment in the threshold, looking inside. As if it were a movie playing beyond the doors, something black and white and silent. She wants to join, maybe. Wants to know if she can change the ending. 

The floor still creaks in the same spots as Villanelle turns to close the, now functionally useless, doors behind her, shutting the present world and Eve on the other side of the looking glass. Yellowing walls have deteriorated in her absence, from fashionably shabby to the other side of dingy and neglected. Like a maze, they lead her out into the open kitchen and living area.

There are a million particles of dust hanging in the air, suspended like visible static and they catch the light from the window in a kind of soft rainbow. Like Villanelle has stretched the rubber band of time so far, is moving now so slow she can see each individual molecule of it. The flat had been ransacked, clearly, by some cleanup crew or another then left in this state. Things are missing, but with no particular pattern or care for how much it was worth — her treadmill and sofa are gone, she notes, but she can see the end of her mattress and expensive silk throw through the open door to the bedroom. Following her eyes, Villanelle steps into the bedroom, notes her thrown-open wardrobe, designer clothes strewn carelessly on the floor. 

Stooping low, she runs her fingers over the fabric, searching for the memory of them. How she used to wear them like a mask. A costume. A skin. So many layers she pulled and pulled and pulled off and still there were more underneath. For how long had she wanted them, these designer trappings? So radically different from the rags she wore growing up in that shitstain village in Russia, in that orphanage, in that prison. For how long had her life been ruled by that want? That belief, that this is what she deserved? 

Deserved. Six months ago, Villanelle believed she deserved all this. This apartment. That expensive silk. Designer clothes fresh off the runway. But now the sun has swung around in the sky and she sees this for what it is and it makes her sick. Sick and furious and something else she cannot quite name but tastes like stale blood because this? All of this? Was nothing but a gilded cage. Fashionably faded walls turning in on themselves like an inescapable maze, soft silk fabrics wound tight around her throat. 

Villanelle swallows and nearly gags, her stomach turning, airway blocked by something heavy and constricting. Fingers pry at the skin of her neck, searching for the phantom pressure. The leash is gone, yes, but the collar remains, ingrown into the skin. Tugging. Impossible to forget. She needs to drink something. Cleanse her palate. From her vantage looking over the bed Villanelle spots her mini fridge, its sole purpose to hold champagne, and she scrambles up and over the pillowy mattress, hopeful the cleanup crew would not think to look inside. Reaching desperately, she yanks the door open. It is all coming up now. It tastes of dirt and earth, the shovelfuls she buried herself with, way deep down, shifting and loose as something claws its way up to the surface. Without looking, she grabs a bottle and begins furiously working at the cork until it pops off, unceremoniously. She takes a long swig. 

And immediately spits it all out in a dramatic spray, droplets shimmering in the diffused light. With no power to the apartment, the champagne has gone flat and so, so, so sour in the bottle. Sharp and musty and fermented and so rancid her body rejects it, wholly. Is this what she wanted for so long? Did it always taste like this, or does she know better now? What has changed? 

She is going to be sick. For real, now and that will be embarrassing. Villanelle can smell the champagne and dirt and sour grapes as she doubles over, gulping in huge mouthfuls of air but feeling none of it. She drops the bottle and it spills out onto the hardwood and that is worse, it is so much worse and she can feel it now all coming up. She is going to, she is going to .. 

_ Hic.  _

Hiccup?

A low whistle cuts through the haze, hollow, familiar footsteps creeping up behind her. 

“This place is chic as shit.” 

Straightening at the sound, Villanelle finds the higher air is clearer, more refreshing. She turns just as Eve emerges from the hallway. 

“It has seen better days.”

“Still,” Eve replies, noncommittal. Her hands are everywhere, fingers touching everything. Trailing along the walls, into drawers, across countertops. Villanelle watches her hair disappear around the corner as she rounds into the bathroom. 

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Villanelle hears. She smiles to herself. “Custom gold taps? Really, Villanelle?” 

“Did you get her notes?” Villanelle answers, a swift change of subject. Eve, back from her journey through the flat, walks toward Villanelle, digging a worn notebook out of her bag. It looks wet. 

“Did you  _ kill _ her? Villanelle asks, scandalized, or doing her best impression of it. 

“What? No! She was like, a hundred years old. I slipped some Benadryl in her tea and she zonked while we chatted about her grandkids. Or at least I think we did. My French is terrible.” 

With a little pressure, Eve skillfully uses her shoulder to box Villanelle out from her space in front of the fridge and peers inside, taking in the bottles of champagne. 

“They are spoiled.” 

“That’s a shame,” Eve replies, fingertips tracing delicate glass. From over her shoulder, she looks back at Villanelle. “Are you glad to be back here?” 

Glad? Villanelle is not so emotionally literate as to know what she is feeling. But she knows how  _ Eve  _ makes her feel, so she tests this against that, weighs each in her hand. 

“No.” 

“Good,” Eve hums. Pulling out a bottle of her own, she tests it in her hands, holding the neck like a club. “Want to trash it?” 

“What?” 

“We have some time before Sleeping Beauty wakes up,” Eve offers with a mischievous smile. “This place doesn’t seem to make you happy. Do you want to trash it?” 

*****************************

Sharp blue shards sit underfoot in puddles of stagnant champagne like sea glass as Villanelle lines up her next arc, swinging into those gold fish taps. It reminds her of the start of a ship’s voyage, of breaking bottles across the bow. The gold is so soft, so impractical for its purpose that it visibly dents in the impact and with just a little bit of effort and the hard heel of her boot it comes off the wall completely. Eve cheers her on and, emboldened, Villanelle sweeps out her arm, knocking the dozens of perfume bottles perched upon the counter off to shatter onto the tile floor to mix together, smelling of every version of herself all at once. It is repugnant. Did she really want to smell like that? Did she really want to be what these things promised? Some caricature of human, of normal? Did she really wish to hide what she is — raw, bright, bold, powerful, confounding — underneath all these layers, hoping that someone could like her? Someone could lo —

“We can do the bedroom next,” Villanelle says, abruptly changing the subject with herself. 

Eve awaits her at the foot of the bed, holding out another bottle, expectant. Villanelle takes it, but it is heavy in her hand and she lets it dangle, muscles loose and limp. Eve drops down to sit on the bed, facing her, waiting as Villanelle eyes the wardrobe, the ancient wood, the clothes. She is tired, suddenly. Tired of stretching time like a resistance band. Bringing the bottle back in some approximation of a baseball hitter’s stance, she swings, breaking, as halfheartedly as possible, the bottle against the wood, which splinters and cracks angrily. Shards of glass and wood rain down on her clothes and Villanelle’s fingers have gone numb with the shocking vibrations. 

“God, I’m tired,” Eve huffs, flopping back against the bed. The silk throw puffs lightly around her before settling around the shape of her body like an impact crater. 

“Me too,” Villanelle returns, climbing onto the bed with her knees before dropping onto the mattress, stomach first. There are no pillows to catch her fall and her head bounces softly. 

They watch each other for a moment before making the half-turn to fully face the other, laying along their opposite sides. Reflexively Villanelle reaches out, wraps a curl of Eve’s hair around her pointer finger and tucks it back behind her ear. Eve leans into the touch and, all at once, time snaps back like a slingshot, Villanelle thrust from the past to the clear blue present. She feels her eyes widen, a hot rush of blood and adrenaline jolting through her. 

“You know, I’ve never done this before,” Eve murmurs and Villanelle hears it twice, once with her ears and once in her head, from some far off place. There is a familiarity here, like a well-worn record groove or a runway littered with the wreckage of planes that never took off. 

“I know what I am doing,” Villanelle hears and says.

Pulled by invisible strings, she props herself up on an elbow so she is looking down on Eve, fingers lingering still on her cheek. Villanelle knows what comes next but cannot name it, cannot pin it down and also cannot help herself. So predictable, she is, in every echo. Maybe something will change this time but probably not. The definition of insanity and all that. Villanelle lets herself fall forward, crash against Eve, crash into a scorching, beautiful fireball. 

But rather than a hot knife in the gut, Villanelle feels only hot lips against hers, Eve’s warm chest pressing against her. Alive as she is alive. Alight as she is alight. So many times in so many ways this has gone wrong yet here, in this time, in this bed, it goes as it should. Something in the universe rights itself. Some past versions of themselves freed from Sisyphean torment. Villanelle pulls back to stare down at Eve. She blinks and droplets scatter across Eve’s cheeks. Is she crying? Again? 

“I have been waiting here, I think,” Villanelle says in a reverent whisper. “I have been waiting for you.” 

Eve’s stare cuts through Villanelle, through time and fathoms. Cuts to the heart of her. That ruddy, unpolished core she tried so hard for so long to hide. Eve’s thumbs brush under her eyes, trace along her cheeks, wiping away wetness as she brings their lips together again. 

A loud, singular crack from outside jolts them apart. On reflex, Villanelle’s hand lands across Eve’s mouth, muffling any sound and they listen, wide-eyed, as heavy footsteps stomp up the stairs. Another crack, this time from across the hall as they break down  _ madame’s  _ door. Muffled yelling in French leaks in. A series of dulls thuds. Then, the sharp finality of a high-powered rifle firing a single shot. 

_ Hic.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always you'll find me on Tumblr @vaultdweller and Twitter @vaultdwellerke1


	5. I’m someone you used to know

Eve grasps at Villanelle’s forearms, at the lithe, narrow fingers over her mouth and tries to pry them off, but Villanelle is all lean muscle, strong and immovable, like cement. There are times when this is a wonderful attribute, times that also happen to involve a bed and Eve on her back but this time,  _ this time they need to fucking move.  _

Above her, Villanelle hiccups again. And above Villanelle, more heavy bootsteps. The sound of the upstairs apartment’s front door being kicked in. The muffled snapping of splintering wood seems to rouse Villanelle from her hiccup-induced trance and Eve’s world spins as she’s pulled off the bed and shoved toward the half-open window, Parisian pedestrians wandering below them like ants. 

“We can go out this way, then down the drainpipe,” Villanelle half-whispers around yet another hiccup and Eve’s first thought, honestly, is  _ again? _

“Always out the window with you,” Eve mutters. She’s halfway to sending Villanelle back to the drawing board for another plan when the front door to the flat explodes into a million shards. Villanelle is already out and shimmying down like a fucking spidermonkey of course, while Eve wrings her hands at the sill, the building somehow ten times taller than when they first entered. 

“Eve, you have to come, please,” Villanelle begs, hand outstretched. “I will catch you, I promise.” 

_ I promise.  _

She swallows, her fingers still wrapped around the wood of the window frame because promises? What does Villanelle know of promises? Eve thinks of promises gone wrong, of ten-minutes-turned-twenty. Of her body splattered on the sidewalk because of a promise. Would her insides stay in? Would her eyes be opened or closed? 

“Do you trust me, Eve?” Villanelle’s eyes are wide, so wide Eve can see into them, can see the movie playing behind them - Eve, limp and bullet-ridden, hanging over the ledge. ‘Your beautiful hair,’ Villanelle would say. ‘Full of your brains.’ 

There’s a movement to her right, and Eve just manages to catch the glint of red light tracking along the wall, a laser sight searching for a target, for Eve’s head. Or back. Or any part of her, really because those high-caliber, high speed rounds won’t meet much resistance anywhere, would blow her open in a way Villanelle, or Carolyn, never could. The decision is made for her. Maybe one of these days she’ll get to make it herself. 

Eve is in the air when the first shot rings out like a jackhammer, the driving, metallic sound of the firing pin striking the cartridge and the controlled, directed detonation, over and over. One starts, a percussive solo, but others soon join, the cacophony rising and swelling like the crescendo to a symphony. And Eve, twisting in the air like a ballerina meant to be held aloft but instead let go. Tossed. The air around her cracks with the heat and speed of blistering metal ripping through all the slowed down time. Eve can see the contrails of sound and pressure rippling out from each one as she once again finds herself plummeting. 

Not into a quarry, though. Not into a fog-shrouded pool of water. No, that was last time. 

This time is some Parisian sidewalk. Maybe some cobblestones, thrown in for good measure. What an interesting pattern they might make on her skin. 

But just as those thoughts bubble to the surface, Eve is wrenched, yanked, really, like a fish on a hook, back into full speed, full time. She’s snatched from the air, her shoulder, her just-healed shoulder Christ, twisting with a hideous burn as her equilibrium somersaults, weebling and wobbling like one of those toys that never falls. When she opens her eyes again, her cheek is pressed against the side of the building, Villanelle’s body folded over hers, her breath coming in light puffs on Eve’s nose. 

“I said I would catch you,” she grins, giddy with herself. Beneath Eve, Villanelle’s leg shifts and Eve notices, then, that it’s only Villanelle’s boot propped on a half-inch of some decorative outcropping that’s holding her in place. The men have stopped shooting but they’re shouting down at them. 

“Great, you’re even now,” Eve says around a mouth full of stucco, broken off the side of the building against her face. “Now get us down, G.I. Jane, and if you hiccup and drop me, I’ll kill you.” 

The ground, the wonderful, beautiful, magnificent, solid ground, has never felt more welcome under Eve’s feet. Not even after that first time, shimmying out the window with assassin Villanelle filled with bloodlust - and other lust - snapping at her heels did the ground feel so good. 

Eve would fall down on her knees and kiss the sidewalk, if she could. 

She can’t though because, well, gross, but also because there’s heavily armed men chasing them, and actively trying to kill them — a state of being that’s becoming alarmingly normal. 

Oh well. That’s what you get. 

With a solid grip on Eve’s hand, Villanelle rushes her around the corner and into an alleyway, just in time for Eve to catch a line of men bursting through a door and fanning out along the sidewalk. Someone down the street screams and runs in the opposite direction but otherwise the neighborhood stays quiet, save for the clack of shuttered windows and blinds as neighbors board themselves in to better mind their own business. 

Villanelle runs like a rabbit, zig zagging but generally pushing forward until the stately and meticulously maintained tenements give way to more ragtag blocks, the smell of cigarettes and urine heavy in the air. They pause for a moment to get their bearings under a pedestrian underpass, until another hiccup rattles through the tunnel, the arched shape amplifying the echo like a megaphone, announcing their presence. A drunk, passed out and obscured by shadows, groans from somewhere behind them. 

“Would you stop that,” Eve stage whispers, admittedly still winded from their whirlwind sprint. 

“They are hiccups, Eve, what would you have me do?” 

“I don’t know,” Eve answers, throwing her hands up and not even pretending to whisper. “Hold your breath? Drink a bunch of water really fast?” 

“Water?” Villanelle mouths, eyebrows raised. Exaggerated. She turns, miming looking around the dark tunnel for water until another groan catches her attention. 

“No — ” Eve starts but it’s too late, Villanelle is already heading toward the sound, her footsteps light, almost muffled, against the pavement. Eyes adjusting to the shadows, she can just make out Villanelle stooping to wrestle a, probably plastic, bottle of clear liquid away from the drunk, who puts up a weak protest. “Don’t do tha — ugh, you asshole!” 

Screwing off the top and flicking it in a despicably showy manner, Villanelle wipes the top of the bottle with her shirt before pouring a generous helping into her mouth, all without breaking eye contact with Eve. Her eyes gleam in the dark, and when the man on the ground clumsily tries to get up and grab the bottle back, she presses a foot down on his chest until he’s still again. 

As if out of pure spite, another hiccup rips through the temporary quiet, the mocking reverberations extending out, tickling Eve’s chin like Villanelle’s own fingertips. 

“Still have them,” Villanelle shrugs. 

“Obviously!” 

Snatching the bottle away from an entirely too smug Villanelle, Eve takes her own swig, then turns and hurls the open container against the wall of the underpass. Vodka splashes the smooth cement as the bottle skitters and spins away, the shape more reminiscent of blood spatter than liquor and the commotion attracting stares from passersby. 

“Eve! That was very careless,” Villanelle chides, feigning some sort of reprimand. A faint blush rises on her cheeks and Eve suddenly feels too warm. “We are on the run, remember? What if someone noti—” 

“Hey!” 

It’s just Eve’s luck that a man clad in all black and shouldering an automatic weapon happens to be stalking by as she’s throwing her fit. Just her fucking luck. Before he can signal his friends, Eve’s being pulled, again, deeper into the underpass, trusting Villanelle’s night vision and hoping they don’t trip over another drunk. 

The light is near blinding as they race out of the tunnel and Eve is almost sent sprawling when Villanelle takes a sharp right turn. She’s not built for this, really. She’s built for diving into databases, digging through files. And hiding. She’s built for hiding. A snake, slipping from hole to hole. Not to mention Villanelle is at least a head taller, with longer legs and arms. It’s like being dragged by a giraffe. Her feet are just about to fly out from under her when Villanelle twists them into an alley so narrow she has to turn sideways to fit, and is then shoved behind a door into what can only be some tiny, detached supply shed, the darkness thick and total save for a tiny strip of light at the bottom. 

For a moment, only the sound of breathing, Eve’s admittedly much heavier than Villanelle’s, fills the small space. They’re nearly on top of each other and Eve can feel Villanelle’s chest pressed against hers, their inhales and exhales opposite, filling the same plane. She swallows, heavy. There’s some sort of sharp tool poking her in the back and she can smell the alcohol on Villanelle’s breath, can tell when Villanelle leans in closer, even a tiny fraction of an inch, by how it gets stronger. It makes Eve feel lightheaded and outside herself, like her limbs, her lips, aren’t quite in her control. How Villanelle can exact this over her, command this response, even in the most harrowing of circumstances, should probably concern Eve. It doesn’t, though. It only calls back memories interrupted, of rewriting phantom histories, not with words, but with touches and the violence of ripping apart time and expectations. Of pulling herself apart to stitch Villanelle in. 

Outside, Eve’s ears just catch the screech of a radio, of walkie-talkie feedback, from the mouth of their narrow alley, by the sounds of it. Heavy bootfalls stop and Eve stops breathing, just strains and strains to make anything of the faint mumbling as the man answers the radio. A beat later, more footsteps, then a greeting. There’s two of them now.  _ Great _ , Eve thinks.  _ One more and it’s a party _ . 

Villanelle tenses. Her back is to the door and Eve’s eyes have adjusted again to the dark. Villanelle’s cheeks look soft like this and Eve would touch them, light and promising, but she senses something coiled in Villanelle, something about to burst. 

_ Don’t you fucking dare,  _ Eve wants to say, because what grown ass adult can’t control the hiccups? You’d think the tension, the adrenaline, would be enough to right Villanelle’s diaphragm but if anything they’ve gotten  _ worse.  _ Anger kicks up like dust in her stomach and when Villanelle leans forward to fold herself against Eve it takes everything not to shove her, even if it means she’s impaled on something rusty and metal. 

“Eve,” Villanelle whisper-whines in her ear and there’s no stopping it. They’re on a fuse, now, like one of those comically long ones from cartoons. Another whine, from high in her chest. Eve reaches up, her fingers curling around Villanelle’s throat. Like she might physically stop this disastrous pocket of air welling up from deep within Villanelle’s body. Or psyche. Whichever. She swears she can feel it under skin and muscle and arteries and bones. Traitorous. Her nails dig in and this time Villanelle keens, then groans, her hips bucking against Eve. She huffs, heady and agitated, seeking something in the dark, something from Eve. Something she won’t get and she knows it. How much pressure, Eve wonders, would it take to cut the blood flow to Villanelle’s brain? How long until her vision goes fuzzy around the edges? Eve’s grip cinches a fraction tighter and Villanelle gasps, needy, into her ear. 

“I —” Villanelle starts, then stops, her own fingers searching in the shadows, grasping for Eve, looping in the fabric of her shirt to tug Eve closer. “I think —”

“Villanelle,” Eve growls, softly, meant to be felt, rather than heard. Villanelle feels it, but doesn’t get the message, or the intention, by the way she slides a thigh between Eve’s legs. 

_ This is it,  _ Eve thinks. All that stealing and lying and running and hurting, everything she’s found, everything they’ve done, all about to be undone by a hiccup, some involuntary bodily function. She truly hopes everyone is wrong and her life won’t flash before her eyes as she dies because really, she does not need to see this moment in some kind of cosmic instant replay. Against her, Villanelle sucks in a breath. Somewhere, in some liminal space, a timer, a countdown, is reaching zero. 

“I love you.” 

Eve’s palm connects with Villanelle’s bare cheek so fast her brain needs to catch up. For a moment she’s entirely without a pilot in the cockpit, limbs moving of their own free will, until her brain kicks back - the old switch it off and on again trick - and she regains control before she can do something rash. Like stab Villanelle, probably. There has to be some especially blunt tool in here to really make it hurt because  _ what the fuck?  _

Villanelle’s holding, not her cheek but her mouth and her eyes are wide and sparkling with barely bridled amusement. They watch each other, completely still and blessedly silent, for an eternity. For a lifetime, or two. Or maybe a handful of seconds. Eve isn’t sure, fury has a way of warping perceptions. It rolls off her, fills their tiny shed quickly, until it’s suffocating, like a sauna. But just when Eve can’t take it anymore, can’t take another second without unleashing something, Villanelle stands straight, fingers rubbing her smarting cheek. 

“Huh,” she says, no longer whispering. It sounds like a shout, in their small space. “No more hiccups.” 

This time, it’s Eve who bursts out of the shed and back down the alley, leading the way out onto the sidewalk. It takes all her concentration to project an outward calm, to keep a steady, measured pace that won’t attract attention. She doesn’t even look behind her to check if Villanelle is following, doesn’t even acknowledge her at all. But Villanelle is, of course. Following. Eve can feel her, whatever string that connects them hanging loose instead of taut. 

Eying up the row of parallel parked cars along the curb, Eve sees one with an open spot in front, and stoops down, pretending to tie her shoes but slyly testing the door handle. When it unlatches with no alarm tripped, she smiles and turns back toward Villanelle, who is attempting to look inconspicuous behind her. 

“Can you hotwire a car?” 

“Please, Eve,” Villanelle answers in mock offense. “That is like, first day of assassin school.” 

“Hop in then, Speed Racer — you’re driving.” 

Sliding into the driver’s seat, Villanelle procures a knife from … somewhere, Eve isn’t sure where and doesn’t want to know, and proceeds to pry off the ignition switch. She pulls apart the wires and begins working at them, her face twisted in such concentration that it’s almost comical, and Eve swears she can see the tip of Villanelle’s tongue poking out from the corner of her mouth. Something in her stomach kicks with affection as the engine kicks to life. 

“You do not usually let me drive,” Villanelle prods, easing out of the parking space and into traffic, blatantly cutting off two cars before accelerating well above the speed limit. 

“Because you drive like a maniac,” Eve replies, her hand gripping the center console perhaps a bit tighter than usual as Villanelle takes a sharp corner. “But right now, we need someone who can drive like a maniac.” 

Villanelle hums a response as she cuts the wheel hard, tires squealing as they zip across two lanes of traffic to shoot down a cross street. She’s taking them into the heart of the city, Eve thinks, somewhere where they can blend in, or, if needed, get lost. Letting out a long, steady breath, she tries to consciously let go of her fear of Villanelle’s driving, her brain instead settling on Villanelle’s hiccup-induced declaration. Like smoldering coals in a cold wind, her anger flares back to life. 

“What the  _ fuck _ was that?” Eve spits, reaching across with both hands to shove Villanelle’s shoulder. The car jerks in response, wobbling. 

“What was what, Eve?” 

“Don’t play dumb. You  _ know  _ what.”

Villanelle bites her lip and Eve can see her working an answer over in her mind, tumbling the words, cranking and cranking until they’ve smoothed together. 

“I needed a surprise. To cure the hiccups,” she offers. “So I surprised you.” 

“That’s not —” Eve stutters. “That’s not how that works! You … you insufferable, idiotic, impossible, Russian idiot!” 

“Um, Eve,” Villanelle starts, turning toward her, eyes completely off the road. “I know English is not my first language, or even my second, but I believe many of those words all mean the same thing …” 

Before she can answer, Eve’s attention is caught by something else, something out the window, over Villanelle’s shoulder. A large, black SUV inching out of a side street, out of place in the chic downtown district. Facing forward, she’s greeted by a sea of red brake lights as far as she can see, the rush hour traffic about to grind their getaway to a halt. 

“Villanelle,” Eve warns, reaching across the center console again for something to anchor herself on. She settles with Villanelle’s thigh. In the rearview mirror, she spies another SUV a dozen car lengths behind but weaving through the web of cars to catch up. 

“Villanelle,” she repeats, panic starting to set in. There are men, also all in black, walking next to the stopped cars ahead of them, peering into the windows. 

“I see them,” Villanelle answers through gritted teeth. She’s facing forward, but Eve can see her eyes darting back and forth, looking for an exit. For an out. 

Their car is stopped now, the gridlock binding them like the coils of a python, its fanged mouth creeping closer to swallow them both whole. The SUV behind them is now uncomfortably close, so close Eve can almost see the driver, and the men have converged on their street. One of them smashes the passenger window of a sedan a few cars ahead and reaches inside, roughly grabbing a woman with blonde hair. 

“Villanelle,” she says again, high-pitched and strained. 

“What would you have me do, Eve?” Villanelle bites back. “Drive up on the sidewalk? Mow down these people?” 

Eve’s about to tell her fuck it, go for it, when a low pitch buzzing breaks the tension in the car. It’s persistent, almost annoyingly so, and Eve’s about to snap again before she realizes it’s her own phone, trying to get her attention. 

Hugo’s calling. What a fucking twat. 

“What?” 

“Is that how you answer when someone’s done you a favor?” Hugo answers, smarmy as always. 

“It’s not a great time,” Eve says, looking toward Villanelle, her knuckles white against the steering wheel. Her brain spins, spins, then stops. “Actually, you can do me a favor.” 

“Another one? You haven’t even paid for the first.” 

“Whatever. Add it to my tab,” she replies. The men are swarming the blonde woman’s car with weapons drawn. She’s crying. Hysterical. Their badges glint in the sunlight. Eve’s just glad it’s not them, glad for the distraction. “We’re in a bit of a bind, here. As in, we’re stuck in Paris with armed men actively trying to kill us. Can you set us up somewhere? A place we can lay low and regroup?” 

There’s a long sigh on the other end, then silence. Long. Too long. The goons have finished pulling apart the blonde’s car, her belongings scattered in the road. 

“Okay. Fine.” 

“Hold on,” Eve stops him. She turns to Villanelle, asking quickly, “If I give you an address, can you get us there in the most backass, roundabout way possible?” 

“Of course,” she answers.

“Great. Hugo, send it over.” 


	6. You know I'm out my mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back by unpopular demand

Oh, how Villanelle missed luxury. 

Standing in the lobby of the boutique hotel supplied by Eve’s colleague Hugo, Villanelle takes a moment to close her eyes and sink into it like a warm bath. Behind her, Eve negotiates with the clerk in harried French. She could step in, of course, offer her fluency, but Eve is holding her own and so Villanelle leaves her to it, lets her attention wander to her surroundings.

While wealth was a world from which Villanelle had largely been excluded, through both birth and circumstance, she was familiar enough with the concept to recognize it, the way she was familiar enough with the way Konstantin’s lip would curl and his nostrils flare whenever he was getting frustrated with her. Familiar enough to imitate but never truly experience. There were ways to fake luxury, she learned, ways to manufacture the softness of silk the way she could manufacture emotions through the right combination of facial microexpressions. But you could never fake the smell, she learned, the way richness permeated fabric and furniture. It smelled of power. Villanelle could don sheep’s clothing and join the herd. Flatten her ears and hide her fangs. But she would always smell like a predator. 

Letting her head tip back until the bright lights of the chandelier dance behind her eyelids like dull suns, Villanelle inhales deeply, her lips curling into a lazy smile. 

Yes, she thinks. This place will do. 

Her eyes slide open and she finds Eve watching her from the front desk, expression murky, save the quirk in her eyebrow. Villanelle would die for that quirk. Would live for it. Would live in it. Shrink herself down and drape herself over that little half-sickle. She hopes she will forever be so confounding to Eve, such a puzzle, so she might see it. 

Forever. Huh. That is a new one. 

In a clipped tone, the clerk offers to show them to their room. Eve nods and follows, Villanelle trailing behind as they are led into the elevator, an intricate, ancient cage. Another mark of luxury, the balance of modern and antique. As they are hauled upward, Villanelle watches the gears spin and catch, biting her lip and flexing her buzzing fingers. She wants to jump, the thought lancing through her mind, intrusive and loud. Two flints inside her striking in a shower of sparks. _Mischief, mischief, mischief, mischief…_

There is a hand on her arm, solid. Demanding. Eve is watching her again, expression somewhere between ‘don’t’ and ‘please.’ What a wonderful space for Villanelle. She likes it here very much, thank you. 

She is about to jump when they are all saved from a horrible, plummeting death, probably, by the doors of the elevator-cage sliding open, beckoning them into the hallway. The clerk leads, again, and Villanelle takes her time, letting her fingertips drag against the satiny wallpaper. The doors are heavy and solid wood, not the corrugated stuff like at her last cheap motel, and they each lock with actual keys. Oh this will be fun. 

Villanelle holds onto that thought all the way down the hall and around the corner, following the stern click of the clerk’s heels. Holds onto it all the way to their room. 

Correction — rooms? 

“ _This is yours,”_ the woman says, unlocking the door and gesturing to Eve. The door swings in, revealing a tastefully decorated, if not a bit small, room with a single, twin bed at the center, its head pushed against the wall. 

“ _And you,”_ she says to Villanelle, handing her a key. “ _Are through that door. You share a bathroom.”_

It takes Villanelle a moment too long to process the turn of events. 

“Separate rooms?” she asks, spinning around to find the clerk. She is already gone, though, happy to be through with whatever landed them on her doorstep. 

“Good,” Eve snorts, already flopping down on her bed, testing its springiness. She sounds tired. “Maybe I’ll finally be able to sleep without someone using my back as a punching bag.” 

“We are not sleeping together?” 

“Uh,” Eve starts, stretching her arms out so her wrists loosely hang off the side of the bed. Adorably, her feet do not quite reach the bottom. “Yeah, I don’t think so. There’s no way we’re both squeezing into this bed and getting any sleep.” 

“We could push our beds together.” 

“What?” Eve sits up, strands of hair coming loose and draping over one eye. Villanelle watches them like a hawk watching a mouse. “No. We’re not some 1950’s sitcom married couple pushing the beds together for their regularly scheduled missionary sex.” 

Villanelle pouts, sticks her lower lip out, but Eve only raises an eyebrow. A challenge. She is about to whine, a real glassbreaker in pitch, when Eve throws a sock at her, catching her right in the face. 

“Come on,” Eve says, cutting her off. “Go drop your stuff off in _your_ room and get back here. I bet this place has a killer room service menu.” 

**************

“You know,” Villanelle starts around a mouthful of rich French food. Eve was right, the room service _was_ killer. “It is not so bad, this spy stuff. Perhaps I am in the wrong profession.” 

Eve snorts, again, as she digs into the cake they ordered for dessert, her dinner untouched. They are on opposite ends of the tiny bed, Eve bracketed in a nest of pillows, Villanelle lounging lengthwise across the end. 

“You think I could not do it?” Villanelle asks in mock offense. And if it stings, she ignores it. 

“No,” Eve answers, quickly. There is chocolate on her lip. Villanelle licks her own, hoping for a taste of it. “No. You could. Really. It’s more like, well … it’s not like being an assassin but just for the good guys.” 

Villanelle tips her head, her attention slipping like fine silk. Eve wipes the chocolate off her lip and sucks for a moment on her fingertip. The world gets brighter and sharper as Villanelle’s eyes dilate. She runs her tongue over the sharp tip of a canine, testing it. 

“It’s really not exciting at all,” Eve continues. Lying, because if it was not exciting she would not have stolen all those secrets when they took it away from her. She would not be trying to keep doing it. So a lie, yes, but Villanelle lets her have it. “In fact, it’s our job to stop the exciting things from happening. The bombings and the shootouts and the assassinations. You like chaos. It’s who you are.” 

“Would you be there?” 

Eve retreats for a beat, not physically, but she falls inside herself. Villanelle watches the flicker behind her eyes. Like when she strangles someone, her fingers compressing, cutting off blood flow. When they know they will die. Eve goes there for a moment, visits something in her that is dead.

“I don’t do that anymore.” 

“But if you did,” Villanelle prods. Following her, to her dead place. Bringing her back. “Would you be there? If I were a spy and you were a spy?” 

“Sure,” Eve offers, from her dead place. Villanelle scoots closer. “Maybe.” Closer still. “Sometimes. Not on the same side, but in passing, here and there across Europe.” Close enough Villanelle can run a finger through frosting and bring it to Eve’s lips. She takes it in a smooth rasp of tongue, then the sharpness of teeth. 

“Adversaries.” 

“That would be sexy.” Eve’s cheeks flush. Villanelle can almost taste the heat of it on her tongue, can almost hear how the air around them shifts and buzzes like radio static. Reaching with a fork, Eve scoops up some cake, holding it out as Villanelle leans in. 

“No,” Villanelle murmurs, pushing the fork aside lightly with two fingers, then curling them over the prongs to slide the cake off and into her mouth. The sweet hits first, then the bitter. Like dark chocolate. Like Eve. She crashes their lips together, cake and all, and for a heated moment their tongues twist, sharing the delicious dissonance. Until there is a hand on Villanelle’s chest, a steady pressure spreading them apart. 

“Woah there,” Eve husks. “That’s far enough.”

Villanelle does whine this time. Somewhere, probably, a dog howls in return. 

“Sweetheart,” Eve starts again, her hands coming up to frame Villanelle’s face. Her cheeks squish and push out, like a fish. “There is no way we are having sex on this bed.” 

“But Eve,” Villanelle whimpers, the syllables muffled. 

“Nope. In fact, I think it’s time for you to go to your own bed. We’re meeting Hugo early for breakfast in the morning.” 

***********************

Villanelle stares, unblinking, up at the ceiling. 

Are her eyes open or closed? She cannot tell. Cannot tell whether she has been here for minutes or hours, the dark having swallowed everything into its monotone stillness. The ceiling does not move. The shadows do not move. She does not move. She must be asleep. Dreaming of the ceiling. 

How boring. 

Suddenly, the room is awash in dull blue light. Villanelle blinks once, twice, to rehydrate her eyes. Her phone, tossed onto the nightstand, is lit up. Reaching, she tips the screen toward her, wincing a bit at the brightness. 

_| E: Are you awake?_

_| E: I have a question_

Villanelle bites down a smile, flopping back onto the pillows, phone above her head and thumbs poised as she reads, then rereads the texts. 

_| V: You know, if you have a question you can come ask_

_| V: I am just through the door_

_| V: No funny business. I promise x_

The walls are just thin enough for Villanelle to hear the vibrations of Eve’s phone against the nightstand. It gives her an odd thrill, hearing their delivery. Knowing Eve is reading them. 

_| E: Do you still want to kill me?_

Villanelle nearly drops the phone on her face, the question washing over her nerves like ice water, Something stirs in her. Once. Something hibernating in its den, feeding on its reserves and waiting out the winter. 

_| V: ?_

Three dots pop up on the screen, then disappear. Again. She can picture Eve’s expression but cannot quite pick out the emotion. Puzzle pieces slotting together but no box to compare it to. She is running her fingers through her hair, both hands, probably, trying to shake loose whatever wants to come out, whatever is burrowing into that beautiful brain of hers. 

_| E: I said once, that I trusted you to want to kill me._

_| E: And also fuck me. Lately we’ve been doing more of one than the other_

_| E: But I’m curious. If you still wanted to. If you would …_

If she would …? Kill her? Kill Eve? Villanelle sits with that thought, the sharpness of it. Like a beautiful, gleaming knifeblade catching the sun. Admire it, yes, but get too zealous and you will lose all your fingers. She bites her lip, lets the soft skin roll between her teeth. 

_| V: That is … complicated._

This time, the reply is immediate. 

_| E: Try me._

Killing Eve, Villanelle thinks. Killing Eve would be … 

Reflexively, her eyes slide closed, nearly roll back as she inhales, deep and crisp, her senses searching. Searching for the memory of all the times she imagined it before, replayed it in her mind like her favorite movie, her favorite characters acting out her favorite scene. She finds the echo of it, low and long, distorted by time but the spirit of it is the same. She thought she pruned it, snapped it off right at the surface but the taproot runs sturdy and deep and alive. Villanelle rubs her thighs together, her throat suddenly thick and swollen with a heady wanting. 

_| V: Um..._

_| V: They are both similar. They feel alike. They come from the same place. The same feeling_

_| V: So it feels like, a big wheel, spinning and spinning and spinning, and it could land on ‘fuck’ or ‘kill’ I do not have control of it_

_| V: Before, it was maybe the same number of each. Now I think there are less of kill. Much less._

_| V: But yes, it is still there._

_| V: I am sorry_

Villanelle types this last line out, her thumb hovering over send. Was she sorry? She studies the feeling, rubs it through her fingers like grains of sand to look at each part. No, there is no sorry there. Should she be, though? Should she be apologizing for who she is, fundamentally?

Before she can send the text, her phone buzzes in her hand with Eve’s response. 

| _E: Come here._

Eve is, predictably, sitting up in her bed, face awash in the dull glow of her laptop screen. Behind her thick-rimmed glasses, Villanelle notes tired eyes staring at the screen but not reading. She does not look up, does not acknowledge Villanelle, like she was not the one setting this in motion, summoning her. Villanelle smiles, wispy in affection like whipped sugar, as splayed fingers snap the laptop shut. 

“Turn over,” Villanelle murmurs, tugging the computer out of Eve’s hands and setting it gently on the floor. The world has shrunk, now, as it always does when they are so close their cells can hum together, sing something together low and holy. 

“This reminds me of college,” Eve says as she settles in on her side and into her allotted five inches of space in this comically tiny bed. 

“Hmm. I have never been. I have been to prison, though.” 

“Probably not that different,” Eve says, hissing a little as Villanelle’s nails trail up soft thighs. “Just fewer people telling you to bend over and cough.” 

Villanelle’s fingers, methodic and mischievous, curl over bony hips and settle between Eve’s legs, thumb idly stroking thin cotton with just enough pressure to tease. Eve sucks in a breath, tries to move away but ends up grinding the curve of her ass into Villanelle, who hums her appreciation against the column of Eve’s throat. 

“Villanelle, I said we’re not —” Eve starts, trying to grasp the offending hand. 

“Shhhh.” 

Her teeth grazing an earlobe, Villanelle slips from Eve’s grasp and reverses it, guiding Eve’s hand to the waistband of her own underwear, then slipping under it. She then pulls out and settles back on top, pressing Eve’s fingers against herself through the cotton barrier. Scooting back an inch, Villanelle slides her own hand between her legs, then tugs until she is flush with Eve again, until Eve can feel Villanelle’s fingers, feel the quick jerk of her hips. Eve whines, tortured and heady, through clenched teeth. 

“See,” Villanelle says. Eve’s fingers are moving on their own, now, in sinuous circles and she huffs a small breath, punctuating each complete circuit. “It is not so bad, being this close to me.” 

Arching her neck back, Eve searches for Villanelle’s mouth, grasps desperately with her free hand. Villanelle shakes off her attempts, nipping at a finger that gets too close. 

“Tell that to all the people you’ve killed,” Eve husks. Villanelle bites her shoulder, hard enough to sting, to mark, perfect prickling outlines of teeth as Eve’s hand reaches back to fist Villanelle’s shirt. Desperate and fervid, Villanelle feels how wet Eve is now, the slick, frenetic movement of her fingers against her own clit. Villanelle’s fingers stutter and for a moment, she is lost to Eve’s pleasure. 

“Do you like that Eve?” she urges. “Do you think about it?” 

Eve’s body, drawn like a bowstring, presses impossibly close to Villanelle, her pretty throat exposed and vulnerable as she breathes in hitched sighs. Her legs mold to Villanelle’s, her heels digging into the mattress for purchase, hips bucking against her fingers. 

“Do you think about this when I am fucking you? Do you think about what these hands have done? When my hand is around your throat, do you imagine what would happen if I squeezed just a little too hard? If I forgot myself?”

The tension in Eve’s body is changing now, winding and winding, holding that energy. Villanelle presses Eve’s fingers harder against her clit, feels her whole body jolt like she is touching a live wire. Villanelle is hot and sensitive against her own touch, using Eve’s hips and the glorious curve of her ass for pressure, for leverage. Feeling Villanelle against her, Eve whines again, throaty and low, like unfiltered whiskey. They are moving together now, until Villanelle brings her hand from between Eve’s legs and rests it, gently, around Eve’s throat. 

“Do it,” Eve rasps between heaving breaths. Villanelle feels the muscles work under her fingertips, feels air circulate in and out. How easy it would be, she thinks, to squeeze too hard. How tempting, to feel Eve shudder against her, breathless. Would she fight so hard to live, or surrender, trusting, to the dark? Villanelle would guide her there, a twisted Charon, both the bringer of death and the guide crossing over. Her grip tightens, harder than if she were playing. Hard enough to feel Eve’s pulse strain. Eve groans, then cries, muffled, into her pillow, curling around her fingers as she comes undone. 

Villanelle’s own peak hits her in a rush and they ride it together in great, rolling waves until Eve melts against her and Villanelle’s fingers still, arm cramped and wrist numb. The hand against Eve’s throat, once squeezing, strokes now, languid and calming, and when Villanelle blinks, her eyes are wet with unshed tears. 

An hour later, Eve is snoring softly, Villanelle’s arm trapped firmly against her chest, their fingers laced, somehow, as Villanelle’s chin rests in the curve of her shoulder. She tries to match Eve’s breathing, tries to find sleep, but thinks instead of the wheel. She feels it spinning, always, even now, in the hazy, sleepy afterglow, like Russian roulette but with fewer and fewer bullets. 

No. 

Still bullets. Because love is a bullet. It kills you, the same. It comes from the heart, from where you are most alive and from where you are quickest to die. It tastes like warm, bright iron on Villanelle’s tongue and if she bites down hard, her mouth will be full of it. If she cuts herself, opens a vein, it will all spill out. She feels as if she is coated with it, rich and red. Like she could run her fingers over her cheeks, smear her face with it, like warpaint. 

She looks out the window. All of Paris is sprawled out before them in tiny pinpricks of light. It is like the night sky and all the stars in reverse. Villanelle has never been on a boat out in open water but she imagines. She imagines it must be like this, all the stars reflected below them. For so long they were all so far away but here they are now. Close enough to touch. 

**Author's Note:**

> As always, come yell at me on Tumblr @vaultdweller or be nice to me on Twitter @vaultdwellerke1


End file.
